


Tu Fui, Ego Eris

by TinyOctopus



Series: Terminus a Quo [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Legally) Blind Soldier: 76, Angst, Anniversaries, Aww Look! They Really Do Love Each Other, Bad Future, Battlefield Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronal Accelerator Accidents, Complicated Relationships, Earn Your Happy Ending, Emotional Roller Coaster, Fluff, Golden Age of Overwatch, Guilt and Regret, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Hurt & Comfort, It Gets Better, M/M, Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Noodle Incidents, POV Alternating, POV Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, POV Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, POV Third Person Limited, Playing Fast and Loose with Blizzard’s Timeline, Post-Second Omnic Crisis, Reaper76 Week, Reaper76 Week 2018, Reconciliation, Romantic Gestures, Suicidal Thoughts, That’s Not How Chronal Accelerators Work, Time Travel, Vulgar Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyOctopus/pseuds/TinyOctopus
Summary: Over the blaring sirens, Gabriel registered the distant shouts from the scientists, and even if he hadn't seen every goddamn science fiction movie created in the past century, he knew nothing good was about to happen. He pulled Morrison close, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself.The machine roared as the world dissolved into a blinding flash of light. Static filled his ears, overwhelming and painful, the sound growing louder and louder, past the point of overwhelming and straight into physical pain. He shouted at the top of his lungs to just make it fuckingstopalready, but just as he felt as if his ear drums would rupture, the noise faded away to oppressive, all-consuming silence.Then, nothingness.[R76 Week 2018]After a flash of light near a prototype chronal accelerator, Strike Commander Jack Morrison and Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes find themselves transported twenty years into the future where humanity has lost the Second Omnic Crisis. There, Jack and Gabriel must come to terms with their past, present, and future as they find a way to return to their own time.





	1. War Buddies

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the [Reaper76 Week 2018](http://reaper-76-week.tumblr.com/post/167638654361/2018-reaper76-week-dates-and-prompts-hey) event. Rather than do something sane like write each prompt as a series of one-shots, I undertook the herculean task of incorporating each theme as individual chapters of a single story. 
> 
> I wanted to give a huge thank you to everyone who helped me out with this story, especially the [R76 Week Discord](https://discord.gg/STcGgyG) and the ever-lovely [r/fanfiction Discord server.](https://discord.gg/P9VRuDk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gabriel Reyes attends a field demonstration at 0500 to learn about whatever the fuck _Project: Slipstream_ is supposed to be. Somehow, he restrains himself from weaponizing inedible coffee against his (sometimes) estranged husband and (sometimes) commanding officer.

As he stifled a yawn into the rim of his coffee cup, Gabriel Reyes wondered who in their goddamn mind scheduled a field demonstration at 0500. He surveyed the room as lab coat-clad scientists scurried around with datapads in hand. While he could only pick out a few words in the polyglottal cacophony, Gabriel understood the universal language of swearing. If _he'd_ been in charge of the department, the demonstration would have been ready the evening prior, but alas, he'd been relegated to cleaning up the United Nations' dirty business under the guise of covert operations. What a promotion. Thanks, Morrison. 

The scrap of paper left on his desk requesting his presence at this God-awful hour had only mentioned a field test of classified technology related to _Project: Slipstream_ , as if that name explained fuck-all. Whoever sent him the memo had _clearly_ forgotten the revocation of his security clearance pending the final meeting between the Strike Commander and the Ad Hoc Working Group of the General Assembly on the Transparency and Follow-up of Overwatch Operations. 

He hated walking in blind. It made his skin itch. 

If Athena hadn't hard-locked the meeting to his schedule, Gabriel would still be in bed, catching up on sleep after a grueling four month-long mission. Eight weeks smoking out extremists in the mountains of Kurjikstan, six running glorified errands for the premier, and little time for rest. He was supposed to have the next few days off to write his AAR, debrief the Strike Commander, and catch up on sleep. Instead of snoring into a cocoon of blankets and pillows, Gabriel stood in the middle of a pristine laboratory clad in military fatigues, nursing a piss-poor excuse for coffee. The science division of Overwatch could create autonomous nanomachines capable of regenerating human tissue near-instantaneously and engineer weapons out of a '10s retro-futuristic first-person shooter, but it was _apparently_ beyond their scientific knowledge to brew a passable cup of joe. If his invitation to this meeting was an apology from Strike Commander Morrison, he should have sent Gabriel a fruit basket instead. 

At least _that_ would have been edible. 

Gabriel squinted at the frazzled intern flitting from machine to scientist to glowing holoscreen. She looked no calmer than when she had stammered out a greeting and handed him a mug of coffee the moment he'd stepped through the door. The young woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eye every few minutes as if gauging his response to... _something_. 

Was _he_ part of the experiment?

He considered the room once again. Despite the chaos of the laboratory, there was always at least one scientist near a tarp-covered bulk in the far corner. He was starting to get a headache from the noise, and on top of the aches and pains from O'Deorain's latest round of injections, it was difficult to focus. If the device at the back of the room did turn hostile, he needed a plan of action. Even if it did transform into an omnic-sized robot or started shooting lasers or some shit, how bad could it be? After all, he had to endure his husband's God-awful taste in music for over a decade. 

Gabriel felt uneasy, he couldn't pinpoint why, and it fucking pissed him off. 

Gabriel braced himself before taking another sip of his steaming beverage. He grimaced at the aftertaste. Maybe—like with cheap American beer—it would grow on him the more he drank. Drugs would explain why the coffee tasted like shit, though after the SEP, he'd thought his days of being a government guinea pig had ended. At least O'Deorain had gotten his consent first before shooting him up. Besides, if he had an adverse reaction to whatever the hell they'd slipped into his so-called coffee, maybe then he would get to actually fucking leave. 

Of course, at the precise moment Gabriel determined faking an illness a necessary measure, the Strike Commander waltzed through the door wearing an ear-to-ear grin. Gabriel fought down the urge to chuck his coffee mug across the room, it would, after all, serve better as a weapon than a drink. 

The last time they'd spoken behind closed doors, if the wing hadn't been cleared, half the base would know they'd argued about everything and nothing. They'd splintered most of the furniture in the room, the plaster webbed with fractures and fist-sized holes. While they hadn't hit each other anywhere it would show, Angie had reprimanded them for the cracked ribs and bruises, as if the super soldier serum wouldn't repair the damage within a few days. _Apparently_ , that hadn't been the point. Gabriel had zoned out when she started listing off the long-term impact of repeated trauma—as if he hadn't heard the whole spiel dozens of times before.

Gabriel snorted when the intern offered the Strike Commander a cup of coffee. Her hands trembled enough to spill half of it on herself. If she started stammering out a star-struck introduction, Gabriel would retch across the laboratory's sleek polycarbonate flooring, decorum be damned. He watched her flush as the Strike Commander thanked her by name, as if it wasn't machine embroidered onto the lapel of her lab coat for everyone to see.

The girl probably thought the illustrious Strike Commander of Overwatch had the time and mental fortitude to remember the names of each one of the hundreds of staff members spread across the dozens of bases around the world—and that was on top of the politicians, military commanders, and reporters he interacted with on a day to day basis.

Gabriel squinted at his face, searching for the telltale dark circles under his eyes or the fine wrinkles threading across his forehead. The overhead lights threw his face into sharp relief, bleaching his pale skin to a sickly pallor. Had he spent the whole night reviewing reports again? 

Before—when they'd lived together—Jack would spent hours each night matching names to faces and committing political agendas to memory. Long past midnight, he'd nibble on the temple tips of his glasses as he rehearsed talking points until they came as natural as field stripping a pulse rifle. Gabriel had quickly realized that unless he pulled the new Strike Commander away from his work and manhandled him into bed, he would have fallen asleep from exhaustion at his desk. 

Last night, no one had tossed and turned, restless over whatever information they'd read in their reports. No one had kicked the blankets to the floor and forced him to latch onto them because they're a goddamn living space heater and he was freezing his balls off. 

He didn't miss it. Not at all. And if he kept telling himself he didn't mind sleeping alone, maybe the lie would one day become the truth.

When he caught himself starting to care again, Gabriel swallowed down a mouthful of coffee. The lukewarm liquid settled sharp and sour in his gut; he should have eaten something earlier. Gabriel scowled down at the floor, wanting to be anywhere else. When he squinted and craned his neck to the side, the floor tiles gleamed with flecks of some material that no doubt had scientific properties he would only half understand. _Fascinating._

The Strike Commander approached with heavy, measured footfalls. With each step closing the distance between them, the room shrank, claustrophobic and too warm. The air thinned, hard to breathe, and he swore to God, if drugging his coffee was the actual fucking demonstration of _Project: Slipstream_ , he was going to blow up the whole goddamn base and become a goddamn domestic terrorist. 

Gabriel watched the polished combat boots enter the edge of his vision and halt less than a foot in front of him. Well within punching range, he knew from experience. Gabriel half-considered swinging for his fucking perfect teeth. A fight would dispel the rage simmering low and warm in his veins. 

In the end, curiosity won out. 

"Morning, Gabe!" Gabriel could hear the smile in the Strike Commander's voice. He was one of the rare, disgusting breed of humans who actually _enjoyed_ mornings. Even at five in the goddamn morning after three hours of sleep, Morrison would offer everyone he met warm smiles—all without a single drop of caffeine, too. Without looking up, he knew the other man's hand would be rifling through his hair in a nervous habit he'd never quite been able to break, thus wasting the half hour he'd no doubt spent styling it in front of a mirror.

It was still as fucking endearing as ever. 

"Morrison," Gabriel replied as he raised his head and touched two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute. He bared his teeth in a smile, a wolf showing its fangs.

The Strike Commander's smile fell from his face, and while it felt like kicking a defenseless puppy, Gabriel revelled in the feeling. Morrison didn't deserve to address him by his given name, let alone a nickname he would kill anyone else for using.

When Gabriel raised the mug to his lips once more, Morrison's blue eyes widened, focusing on his left hand. Gabriel hid his smile behind the edge of white porcelain and took care to make the ring on his finger visible: a tasteful gunmetal grey silicone band engraved with a sappy inscription on the interior. Unless Morrison had thrown it away—doubtful, considering he was a sentimental fuck—the matching ring would be hanging from a chain around his neck beside his dog tags.

Before Morrison could open his mouth to ask why he was wearing his wedding band in public when they'd agreed to keep their secret-not-so-secret marriage a private affair, one of the scientists approached. He cleared his throat and offered them a nervous smile before he spoke.

"Strike Commander Morrison, Commander Reyes, good morning. My team and I would like to sincerely apologize for the delay, but if you'll follow me, I would be honored to begin the demonstration of _Project: Slipstream."_ He turned on his heel and led them to the tarp-covered machine Gabriel had marked earlier.

Uncovered, the bulky metal contraption seemed too ordinary for cutting edge military technology. He'd expected it to have a sleek, streamlined design. Gabriel could hear the faint hum of machinery, an engine or fan of some sort, and really, it should have glowed when activated. Showmanship was truly dead. What a fucking pity.

"As you know," the scientist said, " _Project: Slipstream_ , graciously continuing the research begun by my colleagues at DARPA, concerns the creation of a new prototype fighter jet we believe will revolutionize the field of modern aerial combat operations. Whereas conventional engines merely accelerate the speed of the craft, this spatial accelerator works by bending the space between two points. We have managed to separate the units of space and time along the finite curve to create—" He cut himself off mid-sentence. 

Since he didn't have access to a mirror, Gabriel could only guess at the expression on his face, but he was _not_ in the mood to be lectured at using words he could half-understand. He had no doubt Morrison's eyes had probably started to glaze over, too, and apparently the presenter noticed. Gabriel almost felt bad for him. 

The scientist took a moment to gather his thoughts and cleared his throat before continuing. "Pardon me. In layman's terms—" Here, the man hesitated and bit his lower lip. "—a fighter jet outfitted with a _Slipstream_ device will be able to teleport from one location to another within the blink of an eye. Thus, to the common observer, the device teleports. We have yet to determine the exact range, but pending your approval of our budget proposal, Strike Commander Morrison, we will begin testing its full capabilities." Sweat beaded at his temples.

"I look forward to seeing your work in person," Morrison said. Gabriel caught him subtly glancing at the scientist's lapel out of the corner of his eye and snorted. Subtle, Morrison. "Based on your last report, this project has great potential, Dr. Andrews." Cue the media-darling smile.

It worked like pure fucking magic. Gabriel reminded himself not to feel proud as the harried scientist relaxed. Morrison had always been good with people. 

"While it undoubtedly has applications for military purposes, the _Slipstream_ technology opens up an endless realm of possibilities for technological advances in numerous fields, including civilian applications," Dr. Andrews quickly added all in one breath. "Now, if you would so kindly step over here, we will begin the demonstration proper." 

He motioned for them to stand to the side, and Gabriel resisted the urge to step back when Morrison closed the distance between them. Their shoulders brushed, and Gabriel stopped himself from leaning into the warmth at his side. He was still pissed at Morrison, touched-starved or not. 

Rather than focus on the Strike Commander, Gabriel turned his attention to the scientists and interns scurrying around the laboratory. They confirmed his earlier suspicions as they worked at the console across the room. That, at least, glowed appropriately enough for a top-secret military device. The rhythmic clack of a hidden keyboard drowned out the whispered readout of numbers. Coordinates, from the sound of it. When the intern who'd given them their so-called coffee set down a wooden crate next to the prototype spatial accelerator, it took one quick survey of the room to find the square of tape marking where the box would presumably land. As if on cue, one of the scientists near the control panel announced they had finished the calibrations.

Gabriel settled back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Time to see if _Project: Slipstream_ had been worth halving the budget of the Overwatch division that did the _real_ work. If the suits continued to slash their funding, he would have to find ways to fill the gaps, legal or not. No one would miss a few of the unstable prototype weapons the R &D rats had been cooking up, and Gabriel knew several interested parties that would pay twice the GDP of a low-income developing country to obtain just _one_. 

"Gentlemen," Dr. Andrews called out, "if you'll direct your attention to the wooden container. Once my colleague flips the switch, it will appear at the marked landing pad across the testing area." 

Now or never.

An audible click filled the air, and the spatial accelerator began to hum. With each second, the pitch grew shriller and shriller. Gabriel could feel the vibrations in his bones, and he leaned forward against his better judgment. His eyes flitted from the unassuming crate to the square of red tape on the far side of the room, back and forth. Back and forth. He tried not to blink in case he missed the teleportation in action, because damn it, he'd grown up watching those retro-antique space adventures, and seeing the technology brought to life before his very eyes was so fucking _cool_. 

The spatial accelerator's buzzing reached an ear-splitting tone, and Gabriel watched the wooden box flicker. He smelled the acrid scent of burnt circuitry before he heard the scientists shout, including a creative stream of Mandarin he'd ask Liao about later. Dr. Andrews rushed over to the control panel, sparing them neither a second glance nor an apology, leaving him alone with the last person he wanted to be alone with. 

What perfect fucking luck. 

Gabriel had half-expected Morrison to confront him once they had a shred of privacy, but when he felt a hand grasp his biceps, he twisted and threw a punch on instinct. Morrison, thank God, caught his fist and redirected the blow downward with a smoothness that would please their former SEP CQC instructor, may the hard-ass bitch rest in peace. Morrison pinned his other arm to the wall, then the rest of his body, and really, they were close enough to kiss, the space between them warm and intimate. For a moment, Gabriel considered it. 

"Gabe!" Morrison hissed. "What are you doing?" 

Gabriel could have said with all smug bluster and bravado that he'd wanted proof his decade-long marriage hadn't been an elaborate hallucination, as he was _once again_ spending an anniversary alone. Instead, "I slept like shit," blurted out of his mouth. He'd meant to say any-fucking-thing else. Once spoken, he couldn't take the words back, and his pathetic admission brought that _look_ to Morrison's face: pity. Concern. Guilt. Fuck him and his pancake, freckle-covered ass. 

...well. Maybe later. 

"You know what I mean." Morrison held up his left hand to emphasize the wedding ring. 

"Got lonely. Needed a reminder that I actually have a husband." Gabriel took great pleasure watching the hurt sweep across Morrison's face like a paper bag crumpling in a rainstorm. 

"Gabe, I'm—" 

The klaxon, sudden and deafening, swallowed the rest of his words. Probably had been an apology, too, which meant they would have been able to kiss and make up later that evening if Morrison had actually been able to finish his goddamn sentence. 

Over the blaring sirens, Gabriel registered the distant shouts from the scientists, and even if he hadn't seen every goddamn science fiction movie created in the past century, he knew nothing good was about to happen. He pulled Morrison close, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself. 

The machine roared as the world dissolved into a blinding flash of light. Static filled his ears, overwhelming and painful, the sound growing louder and louder, past the point of overwhelming and straight into physical pain. He shouted at the top of his lungs to just make it fucking _stop_ already, but just as he felt as if his ear drums would rupture, the noise faded away to oppressive, all-consuming silence.

Then, nothingness.

* * *

Consciousness returned with the feeling of the hard ground at his back. His ears rang, drowning out everything else except for the thundering of his heartbeat. The world shook with a violent crack and boom, and in the echo, Gabriel heard gunfire.

Without a second thought, he reached for his service rifle. When his fingers closed around empty air, his heart began to pound in his chest. His hands scrabbled down his body, searching for his pistol, a knife, anything. But all they met were the fabric of his combat fatigues, the ground around him, and in the back of his mind, he wondered where his armor and weapons had gone.

Gabriel opened his eyes to chaos.

Bright sunlight streamed through a ceiling more rebar and holes than concrete. To call the building a building would be generous. It had one standing wall, and even that had been torn apart by artillery fire.

Where was Jack?

He scanned the scene, focusing at the spaces half-hidden by shadow, searching for any signs of life, any signs of color aside from the grey-brown rubble and dark smears of blood. A flash of blue caught his eye, but when he squinted and focused, he saw the faded white lettering sprawled across what had to be a road sign. Where the fuck was he?

To his left, he heard a low groan, and to his relief, he found the origin of the sound: a bright blue jacket. He was never going to fucking complain about the hideous garment again, he silently promised. 

Gabriel lurched to a crouch and cursed when the world spun on its axis. Fuck, he was going to be pissed if he'd gotten another concussion. He inhaled a long breath and exhaled. Just a few feet, Reyes.

Shards of glass and sharp stones dug into the flesh of his palm as he crawled over to Morrison, and when he finally reached him, he collapsed beside him. His shoulders shook, and this close, he could hear him retch onto the ground. Gabriel reached out a hand to thump his back in an attempt to soothe. He felt the blond tense.

"Just me," Gabriel croaked out, his throat caked with dust.

Jack heaved once again, his muscles quivering as he threw up between gasping bouts for air. He dry heaved, and Gabriel continued to rub soothing circles into his back until he slumped down, still at last. 

"Where are we, Gabe?" Jack asked, his voice low and rough.

"Not sure." He remembered a klaxon, a flash of light, an overwhelming screech, then darkness and silence.

"Whatever happened, it's not five AM any longer." Jack forced himself upright with a groan.

The crash of an explosion filled the air, and this time, he heard human screams and the distinct cry of an omnic in distress. Goddamnit. How the fuck they managed to land in the midst of a battlefield, he had no fucking idea. 

"You armed?" Jack asked.

Gabriel shook his head. "Against base policy, remember?"

Jack snorted. "As if that's ever stopped you before."

"Well, when I rolled out of bed today, all I really thought I'd be dealing with was a top-secret weapons demonstration. That usually involves admiring fancy new R&D, standing behind a blast wall, and clapping where appropriate."

"You forgot to add swallowing down that awful coffee," Jack added with a shudder. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his phone. Sunlight glinted off the sleek, mirror-slick screen, and Gabriel watched him glare down at it. "Electronics all fried." Bright blue eyes looked up and searched his face. "Yours, too?"

Gabriel fished in his vest and pulled out his own phone. The device could survive a drop from five stories, stop an admittedly low caliber bullet, and remain uncracked despite being thrown against the wall with super-soldier strength, but it, too, refused to turn on, even when he helpfully jammed the power button three times. 

"You owe me dinner," Jack said. The confusion must have shown on his face because the blond rolled his eyes. "Back when you bought that thing, you told me it could survive a nuclear blast."

Gabriel groaned. "When we get back to base, Jack, I'll order you a pizza," he spat out. Rather than frown like Gabriel expected, the other man smiled. "Why the goddamn hell are you grinning like an idiot?"

"You haven't called me by my first name in months."

"Well, shit," Gabriel swore, swiping a hand across his face. "Fine then. Unspoken apology accepted. You're Jack again. Fewer syllables than Morrison, anyway. Now, come on. We need to get moving and gather intel."

Gabriel tucked his useless phone back into his pocket and rolled to his feet. Jack mirrored him, and as they set out, he tried not to feel sentimental. It was far too easy to fall in step with each other, and Gabriel knew that whatever the fuck would happen next, he'd have wanted no one else at his side.

It was probably why they'd married each other.

They stepped out into the wreckage of a battlefield: the hollow shells of destroyed buildings, craters marking heavy artillery fire, and the tell-tale scorch marks of pulse weaponry. Pieces of metal caught the glare of the noontime sun amidst the concrete and rebar smeared with dark brown. The cracked face plate of an OR-14 rested atop a pile of rubble, and he found the remains of its chassis beneath a cracked mortar shell.

Side by side, they cleared the surrounding area, quiet and efficient. As they passed what had once been a clothing boutique, caved through the roof, Gabriel heard an awful buzzing from within the cool, dark depths. Thousands of flies, he realized, and turned his head away, jaw clenched tight. Bile rose in his throat. Death never got easier to face.

Jack tapped him on the shoulder and pointed down at the ground. Blood. They followed the red-brown smears to the aftermath of a firefight in what appeared to have once been a town square. Human and omnic corpses littered the ground, and Gabriel's mouth twisted downward when he saw non-combat omnics alongside E54 Siege Automatons and OR14 units.

Gabriel moved toward the bodies of the human soldiers, spoiling in the heat. He found a rucksack and examined its contents: a bare-bones med kit, a few MREs, a canteen of water, and a change of clothes. Jack, a quick glance over his shoulder informed him, was inspecting the weapons. When Gabriel crouched down beside him, he jerked his thumb at the shotguns at his side.

"Careful. They're loaded. Flechette rounds and heavy-duty slugs—the kind designed to penetrate an omnic's armor, it looks like." 

Gabriel picked up one and checked it over. Scarred and worn down, the shotgun felt right in his grip. A weapon—even a piss-poor excuse for one that looked like it would explode the moment he tried to fire it—was better than being unarmed.

Each of the human corpses wore an OTV, and Gabriel braced himself before he pulled one off with a wet squelch. His stomach roiled at the God-awful smell. He held the tactical vest at arm's length. Even if he had a way of cleaning it off, it would be a tight fit. He tossed it down to the ground with a sound of disgust and returned to Jack's side.

"Find anything else?" Gabriel asked.

Jack shook his head and gestured at their assorted pile of ammunition. "At least we're armed now." As always, Jack tried for optimism. Gabriel rolled his eyes and tried not to smile. "Let's keep looking."

They picked their way down the street, slow and careful. His skin itched, whether from the sweat, dirt, or lack of intel. Probably all three. Jack noticed the glint of metal at the far end of the avenue sooner than he did, but before the blond could shout a warning, he was already moving. The bullet whizzed above their heads, and they scrambled for cover as an omnic roared to life in the distance. From the heavy tread, Gabriel assumed E54s and OR14s. Overwatch had spent a fortune dismantling the damned Siege Automatons. How the fucking hell were they still operational?

Jack motioned for them to steal into the nearest building, and as Gabriel stepped through the threshold, he prayed the supermarket wouldn't cave in over them. There wasn't much they could use for cover. One of the fallen shelving units, tarnished and rickety with age, was better than nothing. He dragged the plywood fallen from the windows and propped it against the shelves as well. This way, they could funnel the omnics through the door, assuming one of those E54s didn't smash through the wall and bury them alive. 

Gabriel held his breath as siege automaton stood in the doorway, its servos humming and chirping as it no doubt scanned the room. He glanced at Jack, and the blond's grim expression sent his heart racing. Fuck, if seeing Jack in the field wasn't inspiring. He'd tell Adawe that when they returned. Rather than shaking the hands with world leaders and posing with small children, the world needed to see the Strike Commander ready to fight tooth and nail for survival, just like during the Omnic Crisis.

Jack cursed beneath his breath as the Bastion opened fire, and Gabriel prayed their pathetic excuse for a barricade held up under the onslaught. The crack of splintering wood filled the air beneath the ear-splitting shriek of an omnic battle cry. In the split-second the omnic began to reload, Jack leaned over their cover and fired off a round. It went wide, and he swore.

"If you keep missing like that, it'll be Detroit all over again," Gabriel yelled as he reloaded. An OR14 burst through the wall adjacent to the street, the glowing light from its blade casting the dim interior into sharp relief. Gabriel marked its face plate, took aim, and fired, the sounds deafening in the claustrophobic space.

"You remember Detroit differently than I do!" Jack sounded casual, as if they were cracking jokes at the firing range, sipping beers and trying to beat their personal bests rather than fighting to stay alive. Another reload, another chance to unload a magazine into the omnic's skull. This time, Jack's aim held true.

More omnics appeared, crowding around the blown-out windows and the doorway. Gabriel could feel their barricade shudder as the bullets embedded themselves into the metal and wood. When the opportunity arose, he returned fire, and grimly, he wondered if they would end up sealing themselves inside the bombed-out store with omnic corpses. A fucking literal tomb of their enemies.

"Whose plan cracked open the omnium and allowed us to disable the security protocols of the God AI, huh, Morrison?"

"I still have the scar from that incident, Mr. Punch-An-Omnic-in-the-Face!" Jack yelled out in between shots.

"If I hadn't done that, you would have been run through by an OR14!"

"Still can't believe that worked. Wish I'd gotten a video or—" A shot from his gun drowned out the rest of his words, and Gabriel watched the second-to-last omnic fall. The last OR14 crashed to the ground, a bullet neatly put through its cortical shield.

In the silence after the battle, all they could hear was the sound of their own heartbeats and the rush of blood through their veins. They set their weapons down and leaned against one another.

"I almost want to kiss you," Gabriel panted out. 

Jack laughed, so fucking warm and bright, Gabriel slid his eyes closed to better focus on how goddamn _happy_ he sounded. "Later," he said.

Gabriel didn't know how long they sat there, but once the adrenaline began to fade, the aches and pains returned. The stinging on his cheek indicated shrapnel—or a bullet, more likely—had grazed him, and while Jack was pretending he was fine, his blue coat couldn't hide everything. He assured Gabriel the bullet had gone straight through, and while they both knew the super soldier healing would patch everything up after a few days, he insisted Jack stay behind while he went out to find supplies.

The supermarket had cans of food, and Jack could use his boy scout training to light a fire—even though they both knew Jack had never actually been a fucking boy scout. At least the military had trained them for something.

"I'll be back before sundown," Gabriel said. Jack handed him one of their few remaining magazines. Jack needed it more, since the goddamn idiot was actually injured.

"Keep it, Gabe. I hope you don't need to use it. I'll see you in a few hours, alright?" Jack had the audacity to smile.

Gabriel slipped out through the hole in the wall created by the OR14 and continued down the street. Without their electronics, it was difficult to pinpoint where they were. From the packaging in the store, it was clear they were still in America. It was too fucking boring to be anywhere else, but Jack had laughed him off.

He had loaded up his rucksack with medical supplies found in what he presumed had once been a pharmacy, though the pickings had been slim. Any of the valuables, it seemed, had been taken long ago, but bandages, gauze, and scissors were important. Alcohol, too.

Gabriel had been so caught up trying to read the near microscopic labels that he failed to notice the small, hovering sentry bot before it beeped at him once. Then, it began to screech.

He cursed and made a run for it.

Before he registered what had happened, pain lanced up his leg, the echo of a gunshot roaring down the street. Again and again, the sounds crashed into one another, and Gabriel was falling to the ground. He tasted dirt in his mouth, spat it out, and propped himself up on his elbows. Fuck.

He scrambled to his feet, and he managed to limp a few more feet away before his leg gave out. Again. This time, he managed to find some kind of cover, though he was all but useless, and from the crashing footsteps and grinding tread of the siege automatons, he knew they were going to find him.

Black spots danced across his vision, and really, he hated blood loss. Made everything thick and slow, like what he imagined swimming in molasses felt like.

In the distance, he heard gunfire and voices, indistinct and human. He didn't know if that was a good thing or bad.

Something small and round landed on the edge of his peripheral vision. Gabriel had time to glance down at the grenade at his feet and scramble away before the world grew dark and dim. The next thing he remembered, he was staring up at the sky. It was blue, very blue, like Jack's stupid eyes.

He'd be mad Gabriel got injured, lecture him with his Strike Commander voice. If Gabriel could manage, they'd end up bloodied and bruised, just to make a point that no, he wasn't going to listen to a reprimand like a disobedient child. His memory swam in and out, the world a black-tinged haze.

Someone blocked his view, their faces shadowed. "Make it quick," Gabriel slurred out. He didn't hear their response, if one came at all. 

Before he passed out, he saw a blur of color that sharpened into a familiar insignia. Thank God for Overwatch—words he never thought he'd say again.

* * *

Jack peered up at the darkened sky once more with a frown. Still no sign of Gabriel.

Something had happened.

Maybe Gabriel had gotten lost. Maybe Gabriel had needed to find an alternative, longer way back to avoid omnics. A few patrols had rumbled by the grocery store, and Jack had kept himself quiet and hidden. If they had noticed their fallen brethren outside, they had paid the chassis no mind. Unusual, but he had never considered himself an expert on omnic neural patterns. Besides, they'd survived worse in the past. Arctic survival training with the 5th CRPG as part of their special forces training had been some of the worst. Even Gabriel would admit that, though Jack distinctly remembered watching his handsome, LA-native CO act like a child who had never seen snow before, even when the rest of them were freezing their asses off. 

Jack sighed, leaned back against the barricade he had reinforced with sheets of corrugated metal he had found in a back room. The fire didn't need any more tending. He was already worried about the smoke drawing unwanted attention, but at this point, the warmth and the rhythmic crackle of burning wood reminded him of camping trips with his family and Gabriel. He'd even found a pack of dried sausages. They could roast them, even if the result would taste more like meat-flavored cardboard than anything else. Gabriel would bitch and moan, and Jack could tease him about being spoiled, just like old times. 

Maybe, when this was all over, they could plan something. A trip to the middle of nowhere, just the two of them, far away from Overwatch, Blackwatch, and the United Nations. Sure, he'd thrown their camping gear into a storage facility, but it wasn't impossible to get it back. Gabriel could pick the location. It would make him happy, give him a sense of agency, since most of his missions as of late—including Kurjikstan—had been chosen for him. If Gabriel couldn't decide, Jack remembered he'd wanted to visit the Torres del Paine National Park the last time they'd spoken about leave time, or maybe Yosemite instead—something easy and familiar. 

Jack had begun to doze off when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps. He reached for his gun and fought down the urge to check if it was Gabriel. Five sets of footsteps. He heard them turn over one of the omnics outside, and he peered over the edge of their barricade. Of course it would be a squad of Talon soldiers. Of course. The day could probably get worse, but he didn't want to jinx it.

Jack watched them gesture around at the damage, and he would have given anything to be able to listen into their conversation. The faceless helmets zeroed in on him, and he held his breath, as if that would solve anything.

He heard the footsteps behind him too late to react, and the blow to his head left him dazed. The world swam in and out of focus. He felt his limbs being bound together and then his world went black. They'd reopened his gunshot wound, too. He hadn't been able to do more than stem the bleeding with a clean shirt and bandage it. The Talon soldiers shoved a gag into his mouth, and he felt himself being dragged across the ground. Leather scraped against dirt and gravel, and his booted feet caught against debris, bouncing and jarring.

Jack tried to gauge how far they traveled, but time slid sideways. It could have been fifteen minutes or an hour. Based on the sound of heavy footsteps and the lack of any discernible engine or change in pace, he didn't think they had used any sort of vehicle. That limited their distance to a few miles at most.

When they released him from his bonds, the first thing he tried to do was swing. There was a soldier on his left, and his fist met body armor with a satisfying thud. His leg swept out, and Jack used the moment of freedom to rip the blindfold from his eyes. He squinted against the bright hallway, and he'd managed to tackle one of the Talon soldiers to the ground before he felt a sharp prick in his arm.

Jack slumped down, unable to move his suddenly heavy limbs. He watched them strip him of his gear, leaving him in only a pair of combat fatigues and an undershirt. If the super soldier serum was good for nothing else, it sped up his body's ability to metabolize drugs. Whatever they'd pumped into him had already begun to wear off by the time they patted him down for hidden weapons. When someone tried to remove his dog tags, he snarled and headbutted them. Another soldier tried again, and this time, he went for them with his teeth, biting down hard enough to taste blood.

Another blow to the head and an injection later, he found himself tied to a chair in an interrogation room. Restrained to near immobility, Jack had been bound with his arms behind his back and legs lashed to the chair legs. His head and neck, however, had been left free.

He tried to keep himself occupied, focusing on breathing and flexing his muscles.

In for a count of ten, flex the muscles of his right hand, hold for five heartbeats, exhale for a count of ten, then relax.

In, tense the muscles of his forearm, hold, exhale, relax.

The exercise traveled up his arm, across his body, all in a desperate attempt to keep his muscles warm, to prevent cramps, to give him something to focus on other than the panic that wanted to rise to the surface. It kept him ready, kept him engaged and ready to react to his captors, as if there was any hope of escaping from the situation he'd landed himself in.

Despite straining his ears and holding himself perfectly still, Jack could hear nothing outside of the room. He knew, somewhere within the sleek walls, there was at least one camera watching him, if not more. The locking mechanism on the lone entrance and exit in the room clicked open, and the door slid open without a sound. His interrogator stepped through the door, and it closed behind him.

The black-clad figure wore a hood, bone white mask, and a black duster of all the things. Gabriel would either be horrified, amused, jealous, or some combination of all three at the sight. He met the black hollows set into mask with defiance. 

"I won't talk," Jack informed his interrogator.

Silence.

The seconds ticked by and the figure said nothing. In fact, they stood perfectly still as if frozen in place. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their chest, Jack would have thought he had gotten into a staring match with a statue.

"That's a shame," his interrogator said at last. "Do you know who I am?"

Out of all the questions Jack expected him to start with, that was not one of them.

"Should I?" Jack kept his face impassive, his tone of voice emotionless, even as his nails dug into the skin of his palm.

Rather than answer him, the other man crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head to the side. Gabriel had once said the motion made him feel like a bird examining its prey. With the scars on his face dragging his mouth down into a perpetual scowl more often than not, Jack could see why so many found him intimidating. Jack half-expected him to begin circling him. 

"Reaper," the black-clad man said at last, and some of the confusion on his face must have shown. "Call me Reaper, Jack Morrison, if you need a name to curse. Now, if you answer my questions, this won't hurt... much." He took two steps forward, the skull mask inches from his own face. "Tell me: why were you out there all alone?"

"Enjoying the view."

Jack heard the other man snort. "You were awfully low on supplies for a leisurely weekend trip." He tapped one clawed finger against the lower half of his mask. "The last time I saw you, you didn't look so young. Let's run through the possibilities, shall we?" Jack felt cool metal claws dig into his hair, and they jerked his head backward, exposing his neck. He hissed out a breath through his teeth. "Maybe you're just a look-alike. You wouldn't be the first obsessive fanboy to use facial reconstructive surgery in a misguided attempt to become the illustrious former Strike Commander of Overwatch." The claws dug into his scalp. "Maybe a long-lost son." Here, Reaper chuckled. His shoulders shook with barely suppressed laughter, and his free hand dug into his side the same way Gabriel did when he tried not to make too much noise when he laughed. "You could be a nephew or a cousin. The resemblance is uncanny. I wonder if..." Reaper trailed off and shook his head, dismissing the thought. 

The pieces started to fit together, and Jack didn't want to believe in utterly impossible things, even when he lived in a world where it was possible to become a character straight out of an WWII comic book thanks to top-secret government experimentation. Intelligent, talking gorillas, super soldiers, killer robots led by human-hating artificial intelligence—fine. He drew the line at time travel. 

"Gabe, what year is it?" 

Instead of answering, Reaper dislodged his gauntlets, ripping more than a few strands of hair. Cold, sharp talons slid under the hem of his shirt and rucked it up to his armpits, exposing his stomach. Reaper peered down at his abdomen as if searching for something, and he closed his fist around the metal dog tags hanging around his neck, holding them up to the light. Despite being unable to see his face, Jack knew he focused on the dull, silicone ring dangling between the thin metal tags. 

Reaper began to laugh and laugh as if he'd seen the funniest thing in a long time. It wasn't a pleasant sound. When the black-clad man got himself under control, he dropped the dog tags and tugged the shirt back down, as if giving Jack a semblance of privacy.

"2080," he answered at last. "Don't look so surprised. It must be... what? Twenty years into the future for you."

"Yes," Jack said, feeling numb. Not from poor circulation, no, but from the dread settling cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. "Gabe, what happened? Why are you..." He trailed off, uncertain.

Reaper took a step back. With the slow, dramatic flair Jack expected, he removed his mask with a hiss of pressurized air. Dark brown eyes searched Jack's face, and really, he must have been expecting revulsion or fear. All Jack saw was Gabriel. Older, yes, and battle-scarred, but still the man he'd married. Nothing else mattered: not the shift of his skin as tendrils of black smoke wafted from cracks in his skin or the way multiple eyes blinked in the darkness of his cowl. 

"Was that supposed to frighten me, Gabe?" Jack asked with a smile. Of course, even in his mid-fifties, his husband would still be surprised that yes, in fact, Jack loved him, even if he was a pain in the ass to live with sometimes.

"Yes," Reaper hissed out. "I'm not your Gabriel. You don't know even a _fraction_ of the things I've done."

Jack shrugged his shoulders as best as he could while still bound to the chair. "Soldiers kill. War is hell." Once, Gabriel had told him something similar. "We've both done what was necessary to make the world a better place. Whatever you did, I'm sure you had your reasons." 

Reaper lashed out with a snarl. Jack expected the blow and braced himself. Pinpricks of light danced across his vision as the first punch connected. The second one, too, which split his lip. The third caught him off-guard, and he felt the metal gauntlet catch against his skin. He stopped counting after five.

When Reaper finished, his breathing harsh and labored through his mask, Jack mustered up a smile. "Feel better, Gabe?"

The other man growled and raised his fist again in warning. His leather-clad knuckles wetly gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights. Jack licked his lips, tasting the salt and iron of his own blood.

Rather than dignify his question with a response, Reaper stormed out of the room with a growl of frustration, leaving Jack alone to celebrate his small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear what you think about the story so far. Please feel free to leave a comment, nudge me on Discord @TinyOctopus#8724, or find me on [Tumblr](https://tinyoctopuswrites.tumblr.com/)!


	2. They Loved Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some things never change, and for everything else, there’s a nothing few rounds of pulse ammunition won’t solve.

Gabriel opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. 

He noticed the ceiling first: a faded Overwatch logo mocking him with all of its orange and off-white glory, the surrounding concrete discolored with age. From the damp musk in the air, Gabriel was somewhere underground—or in an old, poorly-maintained building. The bed creaked as he sat up, and his body protested the movement. Black spots swam across his vision, and Gabriel lowered himself back onto the thin mattress with a hiss. Fuck, he wasn't going to try that again. Back to staring at the ceiling then. 

"Stay still," a voice growled out. 

Gabriel jerked upright despite the pain, startled and combative. He stared into the emotionless mask of a man who unironically wore a red, white, and blue leather monstrosity of a jacket. Why not wear a goddamn American flag with stars and stripes instead? God, was Jack's horrible fashion sense _spreading_? If it wasn't for the age of the other man's voice, the receding hairline, and the scar peeking out over the edge of his visor, Gabriel would have thought they could be the same person. 

"I didn't spend the past five hours pulling bullets from your sorry ass only for you to undo all of my hard work." The man seated beside him leaned back in his metal folding chair; it squealed as he shifted his weight. "Stay still—or else." He had the sort of voice that would turn even the kindest words into an implicit threat. "I wasted a biotic canister on you, so if you rip your stitches, you can sew them back up yourself. Between the super-soldier serum and your nanites, you heal fast but not _that_ fast." 

"Five hours?" Gabriel croaked out. 

The man beside him snorted. " _Surprisingly,_ " he emphasized, voice dripping with sarcasm, "it was difficult to pull the bullets from your body, since it was healing itself around them." 

Gabriel allowed his words to sink in and toyed with the sheet covering him. He could feel bandages wrapped around his torso and leg, and from the rough fabric scratching against his thigh, he wasn't wearing the same pants from earlier. It made sense, considering the surgery, but he still felt exposed. Laid bare. 

If the man beside him knew about the nanites, he knew about O'Deorain. From the sound of it, he also either knew or guessed Gabriel's involvement with the SEP, a classified, top-secret American military operation only a handful of people still alive could talk about with any sort of certainty, conspiracy theorists notwithstanding. 

Gabriel, in no uncertain terms, was fucked. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face as he thought, calloused fingertips rasping over his beard—it needed a trim. Badly. In Kurjikstan, he'd had no time for such _civilized_ pleasantries. Gabriel had been too busy monitoring drone surveillance feeds, squeezing through mountain crags, and establishing a defensive perimeter. _Somehow_ , the scared-as-shit insurgents had gotten their hands on ack-acks and missile launchers, the fucking bastards. It had been a shit show.

Gabriel considered the masked man's face, then his body. He held himself still, as if he could care less if Gabriel examined every inch of him, and the longer he stared, the more Gabriel began to wonder. There was only one other person in the world who knew about his nanite treatment, and in all the years he'd known Moria O'Deorain, she had never willingly shared her secrets with _anyone_. The only other person who might even begin to guess the side effects of the soldier enhancement program would be someone who'd experienced it firsthand. 

He'd be the kind of man who would wear a God-awful patriotic color scheme without an ounce of shame. 

The last time Gabriel had seen Jack, however, the man had been blond, and while he bemoaned the start of his thinning and receding hairline, it hadn't been this prominent before. Either Gabriel had been in a coma for an extended period of time or… 

"Jack," Gabriel began, slow and careful, "what happened to you?" 

"That's none of your—" 

"Let me see your face, Jack. Please?" 

"That's not my name anymore," he said. Gabriel waited, and after a beat of silence, the other man unlatched his face plate and visor with a tired, creaking sigh. That was Jack, alright. Older, yes, and scarred. Gabriel wanted to ask, but he withheld the questions for later. "Jack Morrison died. If you need to call me something…" He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just a soldier now. 'What happened to me?'" He echoed Gabriel's question from earlier. "I got old. That's all you need to know." 

"You don't look _that_ old." 

"I got my first grey hairs at twenty, and my hair had begun to thin by thirty. I aged like hell, unlike you." Blue eyes narrowed. "Besides, it's 2080. Don't look so shocked. You said it yourself, right? Overwatch was too good for the world we saved. It would never last, and wouldn't you know? Things went to shit." 

Funny how Gabriel had said that exact same thing once.

"Your bedside manner's gotten worse with age, Jack." 

"If you're going to complain so much, save your own sorry ass next time. You were half-dead by the time I got you stabilized." The scars on his face, the jagged gash across his lips in particular, dragged his mouth down into a snarl.

Gabriel considered moving onto a safer topic. "Do you know where Jack is? _My_ Jack?" 

"Thanks for the clarification. Never would have guessed who you meant otherwise," Soldier deadpanned. "Overwatch found you alone. I assume you had a rendezvous point?" 

"We did. I was supposed to return by sundown." 

"Typical." Soldier scoffed. "Are you able to move?" His blue eyes narrowed. 

"I thought you just said—" 

"As if you'd listen," Soldier interrupted. Well, he wasn't _wrong_. "Your husband," he spat out the word like a curse, and if Gabriel had any illusions as to what had happened to his counterpart—if he was even still alive—he knew it had ended badly, "is in danger. You'll do whatever it takes to get back to him, even if you pretend otherwise. Even if I knocked you unconscious and tied you down, you'd find some way of getting free. It's not worth the extra hassle. I might as well help you do it properly." 

"I'll manage. I've been through worse." 

Soldier snorted. 

Gabriel sat himself up with care. He looked up when something soft landed in his lap: a soft, dark grey long-sleeved shirt. 

"That should fit. Your boots and a pair of socks are by the foot of the bed. I'll be in the hall." The silver-haired man left without another word, leaving Gabriel alone. 

He tugged the shirt over his head, and it did indeed fit him well, even if it was a bit loose around the torso. He slipped his feet into the socks, wiggling his toes. It was nice to have a dry, warm pair after all this shit. Simple pleasures, Jack had used to say, and Gabriel wondered if this other version of him felt the same. 

The boots, he noticed with some amusement, had been cleaned off and polished. Gabriel imagined the grizzled older man shining and buffing them with the same enthusiasm of a new recruit. Even twenty years later, Morrison would still insist on keeping everything regulation standard, prim and proper and neat as if the goddamn Strike Commander of Overwatch would have room inspections sprung on him. He snorted, wrapping his arms around himself as if to physically restrain his laughter. 

When he stepped out of the room, he found Soldier leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. The other man gave him a once-over before he began walking down the hall. With his face plate and visor back on, it was impossible to read his face, but from the tense set of his shoulders and stiff walk, he was irritated. About what, Gabriel had no fucking idea.

As they walked, Gabriel wondered what was beyond the doors on either side of the hallway. More rooms, he surmised. As they reached an intersection, Soldier nodded at one of the women standing there inspecting a holopad, and they followed a red arrow painted above the word "Cafeteria." By the time they reached the large double-doors, Gabriel's stomach growled, reminding him the last thing he'd eaten had been an energy bar in his room just before he'd fallen asleep. It hadn't even been a good one either, since Jack had eaten all of his dark chocolate-almond bars and hadn't bought him a new box, the asshole.

They stepped through the open doors, and Soldier grumbled, "Find a seat." He jerked his thumb at the assortment of tables haphazardly placed around the room.

Gabriel moved towards an empty table in the far corner. The small, circular table for two wouldn't have looked out of place in a small bakery—the kind whose coffee didn't taste like piss-water and where he could get those stupid vanilla-chocolate éclairs Jack loved. When Gabriel sat down in one of the mismatched chairs, it squealed beneath his weight. He half-expected Jack to tease him—tease them both, really—about how civilization had learned how to create super soldiers at the expense of remembering how to engineer durable furniture, but that Jack wasn't here right now. 

The reminder stung. 

He observed the room, quiet and empty enough that he felt comfortable relaxing. A trio of soldiers in dark fatigues shoveled food into their mouths. The rest of the occupants kept to themselves, huddled in their small groups. Everyone seemed thin and ragged, including the man who set down a tray on the table. It barely fit, but Gabriel was too excited by the prospect of food to complain.

Rehydrated mashed potatoes, some kind of mystery meat, steamed vegetables, and a fruit cup, of all the damned things. He began eating with a quick thanks, and God, if it wasn't the blandest shit he'd eaten in a long while. 

As Gabriel chugged down the glass of water, he finally noticed the bottle of hot sauce on his tray. He glanced up at Soldier, but if he was smirking beneath his face plate and visor, Gabriel couldn't tell. If he was anything like his Jack... Gabriel uncapped the lid and doused the food with the hot sauce, then shoved another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. God, it was finally edible _._

"Figured you'd need some," Soldier said at last. Gabriel watched him toy with the bottle of hot sauce, and there was an old habit that hadn't changed, it seemed. Jack had always needed something to occupy his hands when he was nervous. Was he not eating because that meant taking off his mask in public? 

Once he finished, Soldier piled his dirty trays onto a rack in the corner. "Everyone takes shifts," he explained, "Though some are better at certain jobs than others. In theory, everyone capable of holding a gun is expected to run at least one patrol, but in practice, most would probably shoot out their own eye unless supervised. We're self-sufficient for the most part, but supplies are always limited, especially medical supplies. Biotics in particular." 

Way to guilt trip him, Jack. 

He led him outside the mess and down through the maze of halls. When they reached the armory—again, marked with a bright red paint—the pair of guards standing outside saluted them. Gabriel could see the reluctance in Soldier's posture as he returned it, too stiff, too precise. The doors hissed open, and Gabriel stepped inside. Lights flicked on in sequence, highlighting racks of weapons—a familiar and comforting sight. 

"Take what you need." Soldier gestured around the room. "Meet me by the entrance when you're ready." 

Gabriel felt much better armed. The heavy weight of the stocks offered him a familiar comfort, and he felt less naked with proper body armor on. He wished he had a hat of some kind to cover his head beneath his helmet, but really, he'd gotten soft working with Overwatch. Gabriel tucked a final magazine into his vest and headed out the door.

The red paint led him to the front of the base, and he noted the increase in security the closer he got to the entrance—more patrols, more guards stationed at checkpoints, more weapons. Made sense, but it still set him on edge. 

He hated being watched.

Soldier waited with a heavy pulse rifle in hand, and while he'd gotten old and cranky, it seemed some things remained constant. Gabriel still had no idea why he liked the bulky thing, even if it was capable of slicing through an omnic's armor with ease.

"Let's go." Soldier nodded to the guards and stepped outside. "Stay on the path and follow me."

Gabriel shaded his eyes against the bright late morning sun and followed. They passed beneath a gate, and Gabriel eyed the concrete wall encasing the compound—intimidating, sturdy, and guard towers every few klicks. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked down a narrow road that cut through a flat, open field around the base. It would be generous to say it could fit two lanes of vehicles, but it was the only entrance and exit that he could see. In the field, he spotted a few layers of ditches deep enough to slow down even a hover-tank and the magnetized anti-vehicle spikes would ground the rest and turn them into sitting ducks. 

Once they passed a tall, barbwire fence, the city began to appear. Buildings, surprisingly whole and intact, lined the street. Everyone outside hurried to their destinations and avoided eye contact. Gabriel didn't blame them. 

"This area's inhabited, though most stay within the base itself. Omnics haven't launched a direct assault here," Soldier said at last. "We thought it was a safe zone, but you proved otherwise. You're lucky one of our patrols ran into the omnics pursuing you."

"Guess Jack's—" he paused to think it through. "The _other_ Jack's luck has finally rubbed off on me." God, keeping this mess straight was going to give him a headache. "Speaking of him, our rendezvous point was a grocery store of some kind, not too far from where you found me."

"I know where it is," Soldier said after a moment. It was a small comfort that at least one of them knew where the hell they were going. 

Soldier led him down one street, then another and another, and the farther they walked, the more the buildings became broken facades, worn down by war and the elements. Soon, those became piles of rubble and debris. Gabriel lost count of how many disabled omnics they'd passed. 

At last, they came upon the familiar grocery store, and Gabriel muttered a prayer as he stepped over an OR14 chassis. Please let Jack be seated against their barricade, dozing without a care in the world. He braced himself and stepped around the metal shelving.

No one was there.

Gabriel felt his stomach drop and he stared at the campfire, little more than cold ash and cinder. Jack's shotgun was missing, and if the idiot had actually wandered off trying to look for him, Gabriel was going to punch him the next time he saw him. It didn't matter if the situations had been reversed and Gabriel would have done the same damn thing. Jack did it, and look at where it had gotten them.

Soldier crouched down, staring down at the floor. "Talon," he said, looking up at Gabriel. "You can tell from the imprint of their boots. Look." He pointed. Gabriel squinted down at the faint markings on the ground.

"Why would Talon want Jack?" Gabriel asked. "They've mostly been associated with human trafficking, drug cartels, and black market antiquities deals. Lacroix says they've been pulling the strings behind some of the recent incidents, like funneling weapons to Kurjik rebels, but we don't have concrete evidence." His brows drew together. "Jack says Talon is just a conspiracy theory, a snipe hunt. Overwatch should spend its resources elsewhere, like recovery aid after the flooding in Rio. If Talon is real, if what we've learned is only scratching the surface…" He trailed off. 

"Do you want a gold star for being able to put two-and-two together?" Soldier drawled out. 

Gabriel wanted to punch him. He really, really did, but he had to remember _this asshole_ was his one surefire way of finding Jack. He gritted his teeth, counted to ten in his head, and let out a slow breath before he spoke. 

"Care to elaborate on what the fuck's happened in the past twenty years, or am I supposed to put _that_ together on my own as well?" 

Soldier sighed, and really, could the jackass sound any more put-on? "Whatever it was in the past, Talon no longer exists as a single, unified entity. After the world went to shit, Talon cannibalized itself and split off into factions. Probably always was nothing more than alliances of conveniences held together by opportunity and self-preservation. Either their plans for the Second Omnic Crisis failed, or they were as blindsided by it as the rest of the world." Soldier shook his head. "Not that it even matters anymore. There's one cell still operating in the area, but we're long past the point where there's a need to engage each other on the battlefield. The omnics have done a good job of killing everyone on their own." 

"What do you mean?" His chest felt tight. Thirty years was all it took to undo their work. The lives lost, the blood shed, the sacrifices during those God-awful years… and then the omniums came back to life three decades later? _Fuck that shit._ "Considering the ambush yesterday and the destruction of the city, I assumed something had happened, but a _second_ Omnic Crisis?" 

"A few years ago, the Siberian omnium woke up. Then Detroit. It snowballed from there. For every omnic killed, a dozen replaced them. And humanity? We started losing. The United Nations reinstated Overwatch too late, and it was too bogged down in political maneuvering and incompetent leadership to make a difference." 

"If the world's gone to shit, why would Talon want Jack now?" Gabriel asked, moving back to a safer topic. Soldier sat back on his haunches, staring down at the footprints. "He doesn't have any information useful to them. Neither of us knows jack-shit about this fucked up world, and any intel about Overwatch operations, security protocols, or passcodes are twenty years outdated."

"No, he doesn't know anything they'd want," Soldier agreed. "His only asset is that he looks like me." He paused, as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. "He looks like _me_ ," Soldier repeated. He rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his knees. "I need to check on something." Soldier turned on his heel. "Wait here." He stalked off, the heavy tread of his footsteps growing quieter and quieter until the crunch of gravel grew to nothingness.

Gabriel was left alone. 

* * *

Jack waited for Reaper—for _Gabriel_ —to return.

He had no idea how long he'd been restrained. No more than a few hours at most, he guessed, but without any stimulus aside from the ache in his shoulders from the stress position, Jack could only guess at the passage of time. The bindings bit into his wrists, tacky with dried blood from where he'd tried—and failed—to break them. 

At some point, he'd managed fall asleep, and it was almost funny: the best sleep he'd gotten in weeks had been during an interrogation session. The dried blood on his face itched, and while his eye ached from where Reaper had punched him earlier, he'd endured worse injuries than a black eye in the past. 

He tried not to think about Gabriel. _His Gabriel._ Jack could only imagine how he would react to arriving back at their makeshift camp to find it empty. Knowing Jack, the other man would start searching for him... and he'd never find him, not unless he managed to track Jack down to wherever he was being kept. Even if that happened, no matter how well they'd been trained, Gabriel didn't have the resources to sneak into a military base and single-handedly rescue him. 

Maybe, somehow, Reaper would slip up and allow him to escape. Unlikely, but Jack had to stay positive. He didn't have any other options.

When Reaper finally returned, Jack just been about to doze off again. While the doors opened without a sound, the man's tense body language told Jack everything he needed to know. If the doors hadn't been automated, Jack was certain Reaper would have found a way to slam them for dramatic effect. 

Black particles swarmed Reaper like a living cloud. With each step closer, the man left gouts of black smoke in his wake. Jack didn't want them to touch him. He didn't know why, but he had a gut feeling it wouldn't go well. 

"Hey Gabe." He greeted the other man with a smile. "How's it going?"

"Shut up, Morrison," Reaper growled. "Let's try this again. Tell me what you know about Overwatch."

Jack shrugged his shoulders to the best of his ability. "I have nothing you want, Gabe. You know more about what's going on than I do."

"Answer the question!"

Jack fell back on silence. If he wanted answers, he would either have to ask better questions... or _make_ him talk. 

Reaper tried another tactic. "If you cooperate, Jack, I might even let you go someday." 

"You know threats don't work on me, Gabe, and we both went to SERE training, so you'll have to do better than them if you want me to talk. Despite being more than capable, you haven't killed me. Earlier, you pulled your punches. You don't want me dead." Jack inhaled a deep breath, then slowly let it out. His voice, when he spoke again, was a whisper. "No, you want me to suffer." 

Reaper was silent. 

"Gabe—my Gabe—does it, too," Jack continued. "When he's mad about something he can't talk about, especially if it concerns me, he'll look for an excuse to get angry. Better to be angry about a meeting at five in the morning than be mad your husband had to cancel your anniversary plans, right?" Jack's lips turned down into a wry smile. "It makes sense, I guess, since you are… you _were_ the same person. Which means _I_ must have done something to you. Well, the older me. Seeing me here reminds you of everything you lost, right?" 

Reaper snarled, but before he could answer, a familiar jingle interrupted him. On instinct, Jack tried to reach for his pocket, before the bindings around his arms and wrists reminded him that he'd been stripped of it. Not to mention, the last time he'd seen the device, it had refused to turn on.

Reaper extracted a slim communicator from his pocket. "What do you want?" 

"I take it you have some unusual company," the voice on the other end said. It sounded familiar, but Jack couldn't place it.

"How did you know?"

"Call it a lucky guess." A chuckle filtered over the line, the edges of the laughter distorted by static. "Can he hear us?" 

"Do you think I care?"

"That's a yes, then." Beneath his mask, Jack thought Reaper rolled his eyes. "We need to meet up. Bring your companion."

"Why the hell am I going to cooperate with you? This could all be some kind of trap."

"Not my style. _You_ were the one that herded an army of omnics toward the old Watchpoint and forced us to abandon it so you could scavenge supplies from it, remember? Besides, if this really is happening and not part of some elaborate prank, we have bigger issues to worry about."

"Why don't I just kill him instead? Maybe you'll cease to exist along with him." Reaper unholstered a shotgun and leveled it at Jack.

"Bullshit. If you'd wanted me dead, you would have shot me long before now. If it really matters to you, let's call a truce. A temporary one, of course, until we sort out what the hell has happened."

Reaper considered the gun in his hand, then turned his gaze down to Jack. He sighed.

"Fine, fine. For the record: I don't like this at all."

"Neither do I." The voice on the other end of the line rattled off a set of coordinates, and Reaper began to tap his foot. His boots made an audible click every time the sole met the floor.

"You know, if this creates a time-paradox and causes the world to explode, it's your fault."

"It's always my fault," the voice on the other end said. The line went dead with a quiet beep. 

Reaper holstered his gun and stalked over. "Behave," he growled, "or you'll arrive at the rendezvous point in a body bag."

* * *

Soldier returned to find Gabriel pacing. "Keep that up, and you'll dig yourself a nice grave," he remarked. His joints creaked as he settled down on the other side of the campfire. "Relax. He'll be joining us soon."

Gabriel opened his mouth, then closed it without a sound. Good—he was learning. Instead of wasting their time with another pointless question, he sat down and propped his chin on his hand, staring down at the campfire as if the ashes and cinder would hold all of the answers. This Gabriel didn't have the second scar on his cheek yet, and his eyes had yet to grow cold and hard whenever they saw his husband. Fewer lines around his eyes and mouth, too. 

God, he looked so young.

Soldier sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You shouldn't worry about him so much."

Gabriel looked up, his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"What does worrying solve?" He met Gabriel's gaze, steady and even. "Nothing."

"One of us has to care about Jack. It won't be you." Dark brown eyes stared up at him, and he was almost impressed by the glare—the Gabriel he knew hadn't cared enough to muster up such anger in a long time. He felt nostalgic. "We've been having our difficulties lately, sure, but he's still my husband, even if I have to pretend otherwise for the sake of appearances." Soldier had noticed the ring on his finger earlier. 

"He's made mistakes. Lots of them. He's going to fuck things up so badly you're going to break apart." Soldier held up a finger. "Oh, of course you won't abandon him. You're too blinded by _love_ to see how it'll all end. Keep lying to yourself, if it helps you sleep better at night."

Gabriel scrubbed a hand across his face, inhaling a deep breath. "Jack, you're talking about yourself. Stop using the third person." 

Soldier snorted. "Jack Morrison, along with Gabriel Reyes, died in the burning rubble of the Swiss HQ. Everyone has their own story for what happened that day, and each has its own scrap of truth. The Strike Commander's body was never found, and they buried him in Arlington with a hero's funeral. They drowned years of the tense hearings, tight-lipped interviews, and doctored photographs with praise and posthumous medals, as if shiny pieces of metal are of any use to a corpse."

Gabriel swallowed and stared down at the ground between them. "I don't know what happened between you two, but I'm not going to make the same mistakes. You're not the only one responsible, and if I had any doubts you were Jack, that little speech cemented it for me. Would've thought you grew out of your martyr tendencies with age, but you've always been a self-sacrificing idiot."

Soldier shrugged. "Think about the consequences—or don't. It's your choice."

They sat in silence after that. 

Soon, however, two sets of footsteps approached. Soldier reached for his rifle and waited. 

"Gabe?" a voice hesitantly called out. He had to admit, it was strange hearing himself, knowing it came from a different person. Like listening to a recording of his voice, except this one would bleed if he drilled it full of pulse munitions.

A younger version of himself, beaten and bloody, rounded the edge of the makeshift barricade and immediately launched himself at the younger version of Gabriel. 

Reaper followed close behind, and he stopped far enough away to take in the whole scene. His gaze, Soldier knew, kept wandering to the two men hugging each other and laughing. Soldier thought he even heard them say, "I love you" to each other like a pair of infatuated teenagers, of all the goddamn embarrassing things. 

He didn't know which of them was the most pathetic, but he'd put money down on the two old men who couldn't look away if their lives depended on it.

Soldier turned his back to them and told Reaper, voice quiet and strained, "I can take it from here." 

Reaper crossed his arms over his chest. "All things considered, I have a vested interest in seeing how this horror movie plays out, same as you."

He snorted. "We already have a grotesque monster, two love birds, and a cynical old man who's too old for this shit. All we need is a screaming girl."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Jack. I was always prettier than you."

"You still are, even if you insist on wearing that mask." 

In the corner of his eye, Soldier saw something move. He reached up and changed the settings on his visor, but when he looked again, he saw nothing, not even residual heat—not an omnic or a human then. Maybe some kind of rodent. Out of habit, he checked his rifle. Reaper followed his gaze, then stared down at his hand, and drew one of his shotguns from within the folds of his coat. 

"You weren't exactly subtle, you know. Care to share with the class what you saw?" 

"Nothing. I don't think we should stay here any longer, however, before we—"

"You just had to jinx it, huh," Reaper interrupted, drawing a second shotgun just as the rumble of an E54 filled the air. "Let me make an educated guess. You saw a sentry bot and it ran away to alert its friends. We're about to have a goddamn party." 

"You two," Soldier called over his shoulder. "Stay down. You're both injured more than you'll admit. Putting on a tough guy act will only create a distraction and get us all killed." He knelt down, checked his rifle one last time, and waited. 

"Keep them occupied, and I'll handle the big ones," Reaper said before he disappeared into a cloud of nanites.

Soldier inhaled a long, slow breath, and the world narrowed down to the point past his scope. Time slowed, and his heartbeat steadied. The moment the siege automaton entered his field of view, he switched off the safety, aimed, and squeezed the trigger on the exhale. The pulse munition caught it dead-center on the face plate, right in front of the central cortex. Stunned, the E54 froze in place, and Reaper took it down with a burst of close-range fire. 

In some ways, Soldier felt bad for the omnics—they were outmatched, even with superior numbers. Between himself and Reaper, they kept the Bastions and OR14s away. A Slicer slipped past him, yet it didn't make it far. Gabriel, stubborn as always, put a bullet through its face plate before it could reach the barricade. Soldier only had time to grunt out, "Thanks," before the next wave of omnics appeared. 

As the battle drew on, Soldier kept careful count of his ammunition. He called out the number of shots he had left, and when Reaper set a pair of shotguns down beside him, he scoffed. When he emptied his last magazine, Soldier set his rifle down and picked up one of the heavy shotguns. Useless against omnics at a distance, he knew, which meant he'd have to get closer. What a pain in the ass.

"The thirtieth wedding anniversary present is supposed to be diamonds or pearls," Soldier said, "not a gun."

"I left your diamond cufflinks back at the base. You don't have any use for them now that the world's gone to shit. The tin cans don't care about black and white dress codes or who wore it better."

"Pearls are classier," he snapped back.

Over the blast of twin shotguns, Reaper laughed. "You've gone senile, old man. Only you would find a mollusk's natural defense mechanism against an irritant _romantic._ " The OR14 crumpled as Reaper filled its chassis with lead.

"It's a metaphor. See, I used to know this asshole who kept everyone at a distance. After knowing me for long enough, he realized we were both too stubborn to back down and decided we should be friends instead. He kept up his emotional armor for everyone else except me. Also, he thought I was hot."

"A battlefield is not the place for this kind of discussion, Morrison!" Reaper growled.

"Says the man who almost proposed to me in the middle of one." Soldier leaped backward to avoid the swipe of an OR14, the sharpened blade missing his stomach by inches. 

"Spider tank inbound," Reaper called out. 

"We won't last against it. Can we clear a path?" Soldier asked. 

He cursed as the OR14 roared and charged forward. He dodged again and felt the blade catch against his leather jacket. Swearing, he hit the ground, and with one smooth movement, he rolled to a crouch, aimed for the omnic's head, and fired. The omnic's final cry died out as it collapsed in a smoking heap of sparking wires and metal.

"You know the answer to that," Reaper said as he finished off an E54. The bastard barely sounded winded, whereas Soldier was panting as if he'd just run a marathon. "Got any surprises tucked into your pack, boy scout?" 

The silver-haired man hesitated before pulling out a handful of small, sleek grenades. He handed one to Reaper, who laughed when he saw what exactly it was. 

"These EMPs should disable any electronic device within range, including any omnic caught within the blast radius. If we're willing to pay the cost, that is." 

"We don't have a choice," Reaper gritted out as the spider tank appeared in the doorway. 

Before it could smash through the wall, Reaper threw down the EMP. The world dissolved into a blinding flash of light, and then it grew dark. For a brief, terrible moment, he heard everything and nothing: an inhuman cry from Reaper, Gabriel's pained scream, and the shriek of a dozen omnics going offline all at once. Not for the first time, he wondered if they felt pain.

As the echo of the explosion faded to silence, Soldier inhaled a slow breath and unlatched his now useless visor and face plate. He tucked the two devices into the pocket of his jacket and squinted into the pale blur of the doorway. On the other side of the store, he heard Jack calling out, asking if Gabriel—the _other_ Gabriel—was okay, but he paid it no mind. He had other problems.

Soldier staggered over to the front of the store where he'd last seen Reaper. He collapsed to his knees with a grunt of pain. With the adrenaline from the fight fading, his limbs felt like lead. Two firefights in less than twenty-four hours and five hours of touch-and-go surgery on top of trying to keep a compound of a few thousand people alive—he was getting too old for this shit.

"Reaper, where the fuck are you?" he called out. 

No answer, but he wasn't expecting one. 

Soldier squinted into the darkness, trying to notice any kind of movement. Without his visor, the world dissolved into fuzzy, indistinct shapes and dull colors. Soldier held himself still, and the shadows at the edge of his vision danced and blurred. He grabbed at a dark cloud of nanites forming in front of him as if he could somehow hold them together. The particles slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve. His hand closed around nothing.

Soldier inhaled a slow, shuddering breath as he stared at the puddle of nanites. They merged into a quivering sphere, and as it grew larger and larger, Soldier dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe... When it grew to the size of his fist, the orb collapsed inward and spilled across the floor, drowning him in a sea of ink-black particles. His pulse roared in his ears, too fast, too loud. He had no idea what to do except breathe. In for ten, hold for five, exhale for ten: just like Gabriel had taught him all those years ago. His chest ached. Another mistake, another regret. 

Once, when they'd been on speaking terms, Gabriel had explained the problems he had around electromagnetic fields. Even a powerful one wouldn't completely knock his nanites offline, but it would dispel them into their base form. The first time it had happened, it had taken hours for him to regain a semi-solid mass, let alone a human shape. Quietly, he'd admitted that he was scared he wouldn't be able to pull himself back together one day and remain stuck as a gaseous, shapeless cloud of nanites. If that happened, Gabriel Reyes would truly be dead. 

He had to focus, had to think, had to try _something._

Soldier gritted his teeth. "You're an idiot. Always have been. You could have—" He cut himself off. No, Reaper would never have gotten far enough away to avoid getting caught in the electromagnetic pulse. At least, not before the spider tank ripped them to pieces. "Come on." 

"Jack," a voice whispered in his ear. He hadn't heard it in over six years, and his throat grew tight. Not Reaper, no, but _Gabriel._ And the idiot had said _his_ name of all the goddamn things, even though he'd given it up long ago and buried its memory in an empty plot. 

"Gabe, come back. Pull yourself together so we can go home." His voice cracked on the last word, and fuck, if he wasn't pathetic, begging on his hands and knees for something he could never have again. "Please, Gabe. For me." He inhaled a shaking breath and waited.

There wasn't anything else he could do. 

The wisps of nanites curled around him like tendrils of smoke, the gentle and intimate caress of a lover, and he saw the dark shapes coalesce into a large mass in front of him. Long, blurred shadows became arms and legs. Soldier held his breath as the hazy outline shuddered and began solidify into the familiar form of the man he'd once—the man he _still_ —loved. When Soldier reached out with a shaking hand, he met warm, living flesh. Beneath gun-calloused fingertips, he could feel a steady heartbeat.

"Hey," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he refused to name. 

"Hey yourself," Gabriel replied just as softly, his lips curved into a smile. "Think that's the first time since you've said my name in years, Jack." 

The soldier didn't even bother to correct him for addressing him by a dead man's name. Instead, he said, "Put some clothes on." He rose to his feet on trembling legs. 

A low, fond chuckle filled the space. Soldier watched dark shapes sweep over tanned skin and form the familiar ensemble he would recognize anywhere, visor or not. Gabriel closed the distance between them, and he felt a thumb trace the scar bisecting the lower half of his face. His eyes slid closed, and against his better judgement, he leaned into the warmth. In the soft darkness, he could pretend, for just a few precious moments, that everything was okay. That the warm space between them circumscribed the entire world, just the two of them.

He wanted to stand there forever, and that was the problem, wasn't it?

Soldier opened his eyes and pulled away. Back to business. 

Soldier carefully picked his way behind the barricade. His boots banged against discarded shotguns and omnic parts, but he was able to find his pulse rifle and sling it over his shoulder. The strap dug into the exposed skin where he must have been slashed by an OR14. 

"You two okay?" he called over. 

Jack—the other Jack, he supposed—looked over at him. "Yeah," he said with a wan, tight-lipped smile. "Gabe's okay now. Not sure what happened earlier. Seems like the EMP affected him somehow." He could hear the implied question in his voice, and really, if he didn't know the truth yet, it was a blessing. Ignorance was bliss, after all. 

"Let's head back to base before we meet more of them. Can you stand?" 

Gabriel grunted in reply, and that was as good an answer as anything else. It took a lot to take a super soldier out of commission—the American government had seen to that, for better or worse. 

Soldier turned on his heel and began to move towards the single clear exit, a narrow hole in the wall. A tight squeeze but more than manageable. Outside, however, proved more difficult. He stumbled over _something_ —rubble, an omnic limb, a piece of rebar?—and was only mildly surprised when he felt a hand grab him by the upper arm and haul him upright. 

"Need help?" Reaper asked. 

"Acuity's gone to shit," he grunted out. "Depth perception, too." 

"Come on, old man. Don't want you to fall and break your hip." Reaper set a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder and guided him forward. "Terrain's flatter over here on your left." 

Soldier snorted. "Careful there. You almost sound concerned." 

"I'm being practical. Why would I _want_ to drag your heavy ass back to base?" Soldier could feel the warmth of the hand on his shoulder through the thick leather of his jacket. "Bastion chassis on your nine," Reaper murmured as he guided him to the right. 

"If you did have to carry me back, consider it payment for Odessa." 

Reaper's shoulders shook with quiet laughter. "At least _you_ had a pleasant view. Fireman carrying your flat ass five klicks through hostile territory seems like punishment I don't deserve."

"Punishment, huh." For a moment, the only sound Soldier could hear was the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. "The safe word is Gardiner." 

Reaper's hand on his shoulder tightened its grip, and Soldier felt cold metal talons prick his skin. A solid weight settled on his other shoulder. He felt more than heard the other man's laughter modulated through his mask. 

"When I think of fucking you," Reaper choked on the words, "I don't want to envision Colonel Gardiner. Still remember her throwing me over her shoulder like I wasn't double her size and weight." Soldier grinned at the memory. The surprise on Gabriel's face when he'd hit the mat had ruined his tough-guy image for the rest of the SEP. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you here, Morrison, and let the tin cans deal with you." 

"You tell me, Reyes." 

"Boredom." 

"How sweet of you to miss me." 

"Shut up, Jack." 

Rather than answer, Soldier turned to look over his shoulder. The two, moving blurs seemed farther back than before, though it was hard to judge the distance without his visor. "Hurry up," he called out, "or you'll get left behind." Then, they'd need to find their own way back.

Without warning, Reaper tensed and stopped walking. Soldier stumbled. Before he could fall onto his face, Reaper steadied him, ensured he wouldn't lose his balance, and then let him go. 

"Freeze," a voice said from behind them, somewhere on their left, "unless you want a clip emptied into your spine." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun... 
> 
> For the second day's prompt, it really stood out to me that the prompt was _past tense._ When I first saw it, I immediately thought of what it would mean for Jack and Gabriel to look back at their past selves—in a very literal sense, for this case. This chapter (and prompt for Day 7, of course) are what really gave me the idea to write a time travel story. I had a blast exploring how Soldier: 76 and Reaper see themselves in the past compared to the present, as well as the similarities—and contrast—between how they are now and how they once were.
> 
> What's your favorite line and/ or scene from this chapter? My favorite line is a toss-up between _"He didn't know which of them was more pathetic, but he’d put money down on the two old men who couldn’t look away if their lives depended on it."_ and _"The safe word is Gardiner."_ on the completely opposite sides of the emotional spectrum. 
> 
> My favorite scene of the chapter—and probably one of my favorite out of the whole story—is right after the EMP goes off and Jack is left without the use of his visor. Jack's first thought isn't for himself—it's for Gabriel. They're vulnerable. Stripped bare. And their interactions, I like to think, show just how much _trust_ they have in one another, even after everything that's happened between them, how they both _want_ it to work yet struggle to make it happen.


	3. Thankful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reaper considers death by spork.

“Lawson, stand down," Soldier barked out.

The rest of the squad materialized out of thin air. In hindsight, they'd probably picked strategic points to study their approach and waited for the opportune moment to make their presence known. If they'd wanted him dead, Reaper would have already had a bullet through his skull. He recognized a few faces: Hendricks, Valko, and Eakman. None of them looked happy to see him, but he didn't blame them. 

He kept his hands held up, the palms flat and exposed. Anyone with half a brain knew the gesture meant nothing, as he could draw a shotgun faster than they could react, but this Lawson didn't seem to know that. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Reaper noted he had some of the worst trigger discipline he'd seen in a long time. Lawson was going to shoot him—or worse, Jack—by accident.

"But sir—"

"I said, stand down," Soldier repeated, an edge to his voice that brooked no argument. There was the old Strike Commander; a wave of nostalgia curled low in his gut. "Until further notice, Reaper will be my guest." 

"Yessir," Lawson choked on the word.

"The other two lagging behind are with us as well." Soldier jerked a thumb behind him. "We encountered omnics in the area, so stay alert. Report back to Chu after you've finished your patrol."

Reaper half-expected them to salute as they departed. Jack, when he put on his command voice, could make anyone into a soldier. Some of the squad gave him final, lingering glances before they turned and marched off. He didn't blame them for being suspicious, though he wouldn't want to be caught alone near Lawson. Blood was a bitch to remove from leather. 

"He had good intentions," Soldier said as they began to walk forward once again. It was the closest thing to an apology he would get.

"Tell him it's a magazine, not a clip, and maybe I'll forgive you." He snorted. "Smart enough not to trust me, but he doesn't know his own weapon. What kind of outfit are you running, Morrison?"

"Good help is hard to find these days." Passive-aggressive as always. Reaper hadn't realized how much he missed it. For now, at least, it reminded him of better times. Jack may have had his red-orange visor, but Gabriel was the one wearing rose-tinted glasses.

They walked in silence, save the occasional guiding comment when Soldier would have tripped and fallen flat on his face. Once, Reaper would have considered letting him, but they were long past the point where they had to do anything intentional to harm each other.

When they passed the rickety fence surrounding the base, Soldier sighed in relief. They stood within the gate, waiting for their younger selves to catch up. From the limp and permanent scowl, Gabriel—the _other_ Gabriel—had been affected by the EMP, too. He wasn't used to this kind of pain yet. 

Reaper almost felt a twinge of empathy.

"It's good to be home," Reaper said as the other two staggered up to them. They looked like two buddies out of a goddamn war movie, limping off the battlefield to a dramatic, orchestral chord.

"You're barely keeping it together yourself," Soldier tartly replied. "You're more than welcome to trek back to the Talon base on your own." Blue eyes fixed him with a stare, daring and challenging, and he almost wanted to leave out of spite. Better to turn on his heel and run than reopen old wounds, right? 

Jack put his mask and face plate back on, and they began to walk forward again. He seemed to be doing better on the gravel path—no obstructions—and he seemed more certain in familiar territory. Reaper still hovered, just in case. The damn fool was going to trip, just to preserve his identity, it seemed.

"This place looks familiar," he heard the younger Jack say as they approached the squat concrete building.

"It should," Reaper said. "You helped design it. Not sure of the construction date." He shrugged his shoulders. "It was supposed to act as a secondary outpost for the Watchpoint nearby."

" _Was_ ," Gabriel echoed. “What happened to the Watchpoint?" 

"Omnics stormed the place," Soldier said, fixing him with a pointed look, "no thanks to him. We lost a lot of people that day, but most were able to be evacuated." 

"You know what they say about love and war, Jack." Reaper kept his gaze trained on the double doors in front of them. Thank God he wore a mask. "For what little it's worth, I'm sorry."

Soldier scoffed.

The automatic doors of the base slid open, and the moment they cleared the entrance, a woman approached them. Though small in stature, she made up for it by keeping her strides slow and deliberate. Dark, almond-shaped eyes swept over them, and he wondered what she thought of them. In another time and place, she would have fit right at home in Overwatch.

She opened her mouth, and Soldier cut off whatever she was about to say. "Chu, I'm fine."

"Sir, you're injured. We almost sent a squad after you when you didn't check in at the appointed time."

"You know better than to waste resources on just one man." A hard edge entered his voice. "There's a chain of command for a reason. If I die, you still have orders, still have a mission."

"You're not just one man—you're our leader. People look up to you. They have something to hope for when they see _the_ Jack Morrison and Overwatch saving the world again." Reaper thought he heard his younger counterpart inhale as if to make a smart comment about how Gabriel Reyes, actually, saved the goddamn world and led the original strike team. Instead, the only sound he made was a grunt—no doubt, the other Jack had elbowed him.

Soldier sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You shouldn't put your heroes on pedestals unless you want to be disappointed." His voice softened. "Elena, I trust you as my SiC, and I wouldn't have picked you if you weren't fit for the position."

"I..." She bit her lower lip. "Understood, sir. Will you require any assistance with your younger—" She cut herself off and searched for a better word. "Your guests?" Whatever he thought about her lack of self-confidence, the woman noticed the resemblance between them, and she no doubt recognized _him_ , despite the fact that they'd never met before.

"I'll be fine." Soldier waved her off. "We met omnics within Zone B—closer than yesterday. Increase our patrols and keep everyone on alert. If you need me, I'll be in my quarters once I get them settled in the west wing." He glanced over his shoulder. "Let's go, you two, before you fall over."

He strode down the corridor without another word. Follow or get left behind; Reaper was used to it. 

Soldier led the way down the maze of hallways. They encountered groups of people—a mix of civilians, children, and uniformed soldiers—including a pair of wrinkled old fucks bent and gnarled with age. The two held hands, of all the goddamn awful things. Reaper wanted to turn right around and leave. He didn't need a reminder of how he and Morrison _could_ have been if the super soldier serum hadn't fucked up their biology. Well, mainly his. Plus, the world had gone to shit, too. 

He couldn't remember which of them had been against PDA, and he wondered—however briefly—whether it even mattered anymore.

Their younger selves walked close together, and knowing what would happen in the future, it hurt to watch them smile reassuringly at each other, eyes full of love and hope. He missed it.

When they reached an empty corridor, Soldier finally spoke again. "We'll find a way to return you to your own time after some rest. We all need it." Soldier ran a hand through his hair as they stopped in front of a closed door. "You two can stay here." He pulled out a datapad and began typing on it. Once he finished, the door slid open with a quiet beep."The lock is coded to your DNA signatures. If you want food, follow the arrows to find the mess. There's a supply closet near the intersection. Should be some clothes in there, too." 

"Thank you," the younger Jack said. "Not just for the room, but for helping us."

Soldier scoffed. "What else can we do?" 

"Still," the other Jack continued and turned to him. "You, too. Even if you did give me a black eye." The laughter in his blue eyes made it sound like it had been a joke, as if Reaper hadn't actually been trying to beat him bloody for being so damn infuriating.

Reaper said nothing. He met the gaze of his younger counterpart, who was apparently trying to set him aflame with his eyes alone. 

How cute.

"Wing's empty, so no one should notice you two." Soldier pointed. “I'll be farther down the hall if you need anything." 

The pair slipped into the room and closed the door. For a moment, Reaper and Soldier stood there. 

Soldier began to walk towards the room presumably belonging to him. He stopped in front of the door and jerked his thumb at the one beside it. 

“That's yours. It's quiet here, so no one should bother you. There's a bit of a draft, but the amenities all work. Water runs orange, and you might have to dust the mattress off, but it's shelter." He began typing on the holopad once again. The door slid open, and Reaper stepped inside. 

When Reaper turned around, the doorway was empty. 

  


* * *

  


Once the door closed behind them, Jack let out a sigh. He stumbled over to the bed and collapsed on it. The mattress squeaked, and even if it was thin, old, and smelled of dust, he could lay here forever. He lifted his head to watch Gabriel examine the drawers, and while he couldn't tell exactly what he was doing in the bathroom, he came out with a bandage on his cheek and a white medical kit a few moments later. 

Jack sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Gabriel sat down beside him with a small frown, brows drawn together. 

"Don't look so concerned," Jack said with a smile. "I was antagonizing him. Er, you, I suppose," he added after a moment. "We've gotten into fights over less." 

"I don't want to become him," Gabriel quietly said as he pulled out a cotton swab. Jack could smell the burn of alcohol. "This might sting a little," Gabriel warned. 

Jack barely felt it. 

He let Gabriel check him over, but once he was done fussing, he poked Gabriel in the chest. The other man winced. "Your turn. You've been favoring your left shoulder and right leg, so let me see." Gabriel smirked, but before he could speak, Jack interrupted. "You can give me a strip tease later, handsome." 

Gabriel sighed and unclipped his vest, then tugged his shirt off. His fatigues joined them in a pile on the floor, along with his boots and socks. Jack startled when he saw the bandages. 

“Gabe! What happened?" 

Gabriel swallowed and then hesitatingly explained how, after leaving their camp, an omnic patrol caught him off-guard. 

Jack fiddled with the comforter beneath him, feeling sick. “I should have—" 

“If you'd gone with me, who knows what might have happened," Gabriel cut in. 

“I still feel—"

“I know, Jack. It's okay. I'm just glad you're safe." The bed creaked as Gabriel sat down next to him, bare except for his boxers. “I woke up in the base's medbay. The older you pulled out the bullets, and man, Jack, you turn into such an asshole. What happened to Mr. Sunshine and Optimism?" There was a teasing note in his voice.

Jack toyed with the comforter. “I don't know. I don't know what's going on here, except something has gone terribly wrong. The omnics haven't attacked humans like this since the Crisis, and while there have been tensions here and there, we've been doing what we can to establish peace. For every King's Row, there's a Numbani. Overwatch has been doing so much _good_ for the world. How can it all deteriorate in twenty years?" His hand clenched into a shaking fist, the knuckles white. 

Gabriel set a warm hand on his arm. “I don't know, Jack, but you don't need to shoulder the world's burdens, no matter what Petras tells you. You're not alone, and this isn't your problem. _You_ didn't make this world. _They_ did." He tugged Jack over to him and held him close. Jack felt warm lips pressed against his temple, the soft brush of a goatee. He sighed. “The older you told me a bit of what happened. A goddamn history lesson."

“Oh? You never were a history person," Jack said into the crook of his neck.

“Your older self is an asshole. I almost punched him several times," Gabriel grumbled.

“And how exactly is that different from how you usually treat me?" 

“Ouch." Gabriel adopted a wounded tone. “You say that as if you don't enjoy it."

“I do, Gabe. It's just… sometimes, I wish…" Jack sighed. They'd had this conversation before. Compromises, listening, realizing when they were speaking in anger. They were still learning, they were still trying. It was hard. “I could use a history lesson, if you don't mind, Professor Reyes." 

Jack picked at the stitching of the comforter as Gabriel explained, slow and halting in places, as if he was omitting information. He smoothed over the lies with complaints about Jack's older self as if Jack wouldn't notice. Ordinarily, if he hadn't been over-thinking every word Gabriel said, he might not have caught the slight pauses, the hitch in his breathing, the increased tempo of his heartbeat. Jack wondered what Gabriel was keeping from him—and more importantly— _why._

"I see," Jack said once Gabriel finished, brows pinched together in thought. "Things are worse than I thought."

They sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. 

Then, Jack inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wrinkled his nose and pushed at Gabriel's shoulder. “C'mon, Gabe. We both smell," he said with a laugh. Jack clambered off the bed and tugged Gabriel towards the bathroom behind him. Over his shoulder, he heard Gabriel chuckle. “I'll make it up to you, Gabe, so let me take care of you. Don't want you straining your injuries." 

  


* * *

  


Gabriel, lacking any sort of grace or motherfucking poise, flopped onto the blankets and rolled around, fresh out of the shower and dripping wet. As far as beds went, this one wasn't so bad. Definitely too soft for his tastes, but Jack would appreciate it. He felt boneless and relaxed, ready to _finally_ get some fucking sleep. 

Jack had checked over the wounds and rebandaged them, though they were healing fast. Too fast, Gabriel knew, but Jack looked relieved more than suspicious, which was good. He wasn't ready to tell him about O'Deorain yet. 

“If you do that, you'll be sleeping in the wet spot," Jack called out from the bathroom. 

“How'd you know?" Gabriel whined, burying his face in the pillow. 

“Bed squeaks louder than you think, Mr. Covert-Ops. I'm starting to rethink the decision to make you the head of Blackwatch." 

Gabriel grumbled out a curse and got up to _properly_ dry himself off. One day, Jack would let him be lazy. He threw the damp towel across the room without looking to see where it landed. 

Jack joined him and manhandled him until he rolled over. The mattress creaked as they settled on the small bed, and they laughed as they tried to arrange limbs and bodies in the most comfortable position for them both. 

“I gotta say, Jack, your older self was hot. Got that whole silver fox thing going on," Gabriel murmured into the warmth of Jack's shoulder. 

“Well, you didn't look so bad yourself," Jack teased. 

“That why the older me didn't take off his mask?" 

“Considering he picked the callsign of ‘Reaper,' you've kept your macabre tendencies well into your fifties, Gabe. He probably kept it on for dramatic effect." Gabriel heard the lie in his voice and closed his eyes. 

“Why'd you schedule that damn field demonstration so early?" 

Jack sighed. “Would you believe it was a clerical error?" 

Yeah, no, Jack. Try again. He could fool the suits, the brass, and the smiling masses with his lies, but Gabriel knew him too well. He reached up and tapped his nose with his index finger. 

“It was the only time available. The CSTD ordered them to present their research, and maybe, they thought that if they picked the worst time slot possible, we would reschedule. It's not exactly a secret that I'm overbooked, so maybe the demonstration would fall through and they'd get an extension."

“Considering the results, I think the lab-coats fucked up big time." Gabriel snorted. “They should lose their funding over this stunt." 

Jack sighed. “It's so hard sometimes, Gabe. This past month, the Italian Prime Minister has been calling me nonstop, and I don't have a clue what he's talking about half the time—and that's when he's actually speaking English." Gabriel wrapped an arm around him and gently squeezed. He could only imagine. “Sometimes," Jack quietly said, “I wish we could…" He sighed. “I miss being in the field. I miss being with you the most. We had that fight, and then you went off to Kurjikstan for four months. I'm sorry I had to reschedule our anniversary dinner. Petras has been—" He heard Jack search for the word. “— _upset_ about something and demanded we have a meeting, and considering I got out of the last one at close to midnight, I didn't want to keep you waiting." Jack sighed again. “You stormed out before I got to suggest we go out for the weekend, maybe get a hotel room in the city." 

“I'm sorry, too, Jack. Wasn't thinking straight." 

Gabriel felt the other man chuckle. “I don't think either of us has ever been straight."

“Maybe, when we get back, we can trade places sometime. I'll sit at your giant fucking desk and deal with the politicians for a change, while you can get shot at by angry omnics and terrorist cells and traipse through the wilderness. Even if it means I have to wear your hideous coat." 

“Hey now! Blue is a very distinct color, and it's the symbol of—" 

“Under my command, Overwatch would get disbanded within a year because I lost my temper and punched someone I wasn't supposed to. I'm not good with people like you, Jack. Then, you'd never let me hear the end of it, and our marriage would deteriorate." 

Jack carded his fingers through his hair. “I couldn't have done it all without your help, Gabe. I hope you know that." 

“Yeah, yeah," Gabriel grumbled. “Now let me sleep, or I'm filing a divorce when we get back home." 

  


* * *

  


Reaper knocked on the door. 

Three minutes of silence passed, and when it became clear the other man wasn't going to answer, he tested the handle. Of course it was unlocked: only someone with a death wish would barge into the old soldier's quarters unannounced.

Reaper half-expected the door to squeak as it entered, since the paranoid old fuck would want some kind of warning when someone intruded on his privacy, yet the well-oiled hinges made no sound. Surprising. The entire room, in fact, seemed clean and well-kept. Reaper should have known years of military discipline would keep him tidy even after all this time. He still probably folded his socks and underwear the same damn way, too.

In the half-darkness, Reaper saw a bed, a nightstand, a closet, and a door that no doubt led to a bathroom—the same as his own. Soldier, hunched over his desk, shifted the head of the desk lamp closer to his work. His pulse rifle laid against the leg of the desk, and even from across the room, Reaper heard the quiet sounds of pliers working through the machinery and wiring. Soldier flipped off the switch of his lamp, and Reaper heard the tell-tale click of his visor switching on. He expected the room to flood with the familiar red glow. After another flip of the switch, then another and another without a change, Reaper kept waiting.

The chair creaked as the old soldier leaned back with a sigh. One hand swept across his forehead while the other reached for the desk lamp. He pushed his glasses up his face until they rested on the top of his head. Without his face plate or visor, he looked approachable. Vulnerable. His hair stood up at odd angles from where it had no doubt dried after his shower, and Reaper itched to flatten it.

He must have made a sound.

Soldier startled and grabbed for his sidearm on reflex. He spun around, aiming at the figure standing in the doorway. That, too, was a familiar sight. Reaper held up his hands, and he watched the silver-haired man set the handgun back on the desk.

"Found some energy cells," Reaper said as if it explained his presence. "Thought they might be useful. Hard to come by parts anymore." He reached into the pocket of his jacket—too tight around the shoulders even after he adjusted the fit with the rudimentary sewing kit he'd found in one of his dresser drawers—and pulled them out. Each step toward the desk seemed like a mile, and the sound of the energy cells meeting the wood—real wood, not the cheap, synthetic crap fashionable in the '30s—sounded like a gunshot. 

Alone, without the pretense of defending each other in the heat of battle, they had no reason to play nice. He waited for the pain. Expected it. 

Instead of throwing a punch or telling him to leave, Soldier hooked his ankle around the leg of the chair and dragged it closer. The bottom scraped against the linoleum, harsh and loud. Soldier sat there like he was waiting for something.

Reaper weighed his options, and at last, he sat down. He perched on the edge of the chair, waiting for it to break, waiting for the farce to end. Instead, Soldier sighed and rubbed at his temples. Did he still get migraines? The silver-haired man reached behind him with his free hand and flicked on a switch, flooding the room with light.

Reaper blinked. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.

"Can't figure out where the fried wire is," Soldier said with a sigh. The chair squealed as he leaned back. 

"Let me see."

"Go ahead." Soldier scoffed and slid the visor across the desk.

Reaper held out his hand and inhaled a long, slow breath to ground himself. A dark cloud of nanites swarmed over the visor, slipping inside the open panel. A minute later, the nanites surged out of the wiring, swirling around his outstretched hand before they reabsorbed into his skin.

"Found the short. Fixed it, too. Nanites are useful like that."

The visor scraped across the desk as Reaper slid it back over.

Soldier pulled his glasses back down his nose and checked his work. The visor began to glow a dull red, muted in the overhead light and he flicked it off with a snort. Really, Soldier should have known better than to doubt him. 

Reaper watched him flip the panel closed and thumb over the catch. Back and forth, back and forth. Was he going to put it on?

"The glasses," Soldier eventually said, sounding as if he'd swallowed gravel, "compensate for the vision loss. Ziegler helped design them as an alternative to the tactical visor. Less obvious." His thumb flicked open the panel, then closed it with a downward twitch. "If Jack Morrison's face wasn't goddamn public property, maybe I could wear them more often." He rubbed his hand across his forehead, smearing oil across his nose.

"It's a good look on you," Reaper found himself saying before he could stop himself.

Soldier opened his mouth to respond, but the ring of a communicator cut him off, loud and familiar. Once, he'd thought it cute to match the ringtone of his husband, even if it meant they'd answer each other's calls more often than not when they had two near-identical communicators on the same night stand. Of course, he hadn't changed it. They were both creatures of habit when you got down to the substance beneath all the bullshit. 

“What," Soldier answered, his voice low and gruff.

Reaper could faintly hear the voice on the other end of the line, tinny and muted, the words indistinct.

“Chu, tell her—" Soldier began before he cut himself off. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. “Tell her the standing orders remain. We're fighting a war. No time for leisure, no matter how much we otherwise want." He flicked open the panel on the visor, then closed it. Open, closed. “London's a good spot to resupply. See if she can't refuel there."

The other voice said something, and the silver-haired man frowned.

“Repairs? Before she left, I told her to inspect the craft. What happened during the mission that it needs repairs?"

The voice said something.

Soldier sighed. "If she's grounded for a few days because of these repairs, tell her to update headquarters once a day until she's ready to return. I expect a detailed report when she arrives back on base." The silver-haired man ended the call and pressed his face into his hands, rubbing at both of his temples this time. Definitely a migraine, then.

"You've always been good with people in a way I never could be," Reaper said at last, his tone conversational. He could hear the other man's skepticism, even if he remained silent. "Necessary maintenance, uh-huh. I would have called her out on her bullshit, told her to return ASAP."

Soldier snorted. "You were just too much of a perfectionist. Too hard on others and even harder on yourself."

"Says the perfect super soldier."

At that, the silver-haired man lowered his hands and turned his head to look over first one shoulder, then the other as if searching for someone else.

"I mean it."

From the look of disbelief on the soldier's face, he didn't believe him. Reaper didn't blame him. Instead, he reached over and nudged the visor away. Their hands brushed. Even after Reaper pulled away, he could still feel the warmth of the other man's skin.

“Never got around to thanking you for earlier," Soldier said at last. 

“You would have been fine without me." Reaper shrugged. “C'mon, I'm starving. Maybe the apocalypse has improved the food in the mess." 

They rose to their feet, and beneath the scrape of their chairs, Reaper thought he heard a quiet, "Idiot," mumbled under the soldier's breath. He didn't know which of them it was directed at. Probably the both of them.

The mess was silent and empty. Soldier made a beeline for the table on the far wall laden with food, and Reaper found a table in the corner out of habit. Safer with a wall at his back. He hunched down in his chair, the shadow of his hood obscuring his face, and he only looked up at the sounds of plastic clanking down on the table. 

"Didn't realize I'd grabbed two trays of food 'til I was halfway here," Soldier said. "Old habits and all that." He shook his head. "Sometimes, I forget things are different now." He kept his gaze downward, as if the food was the most interesting thing in the world. He toyed with his knife. 

"It's okay," Reaper said. Soldier looked up. "Eating helps the pain," he added.

Reaper dug his spork into what he assumed was some kind of tofu stir fry. The sauce needed more heat, and while the texture left much to be desired, it was the best thing he'd eaten in a while. He upended the bottle of hot sauce onto his plate and passed it over to the other man. Soldier mirrored his actions, and Reaper snorted into his food. Gone were the days where Jack Morrison thought jalapeños were spicy, it seemed. 

“Ziegler was working on something. Might be useful. Help with stabilizing the nanites. When she returns, I'll let you know." The way he phrased it made Reaper want to jam his spork into his thigh. He'd suffer the indignity of suicide by non-traditional eating utensil if it stopped the _pity_ in the other man's voice. Soldier toyed with his food and scowled down at it as if the dry rice and barely edible stir fry were to blame for the world getting fucked up. “Didn't mean it like that, Gabe," he said quietly. “Just wanted to pass on a message." 

Reaper set his spork down. 

“One of our surveillance outposts went dark last week. I sent out a team to investigate. The tin cans have been too quiet." Better to change the topic than acknowledge feelings; a solid, tried-and-true action plan. It had never fucked up things in the past, not at all. “Think they're planning something." 

Soldier leaned back in his chair and scraped his knife over his tray. The screech of metal on metal made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. With his other hand, Soldier traced the ring of condensation left on the table by his water glass. 

When he spoke at last, Reaper almost didn't hear him at first. “There's plenty of room here." 

“Many people still hate Jack Morrison, fallen Strike Commander, let alone Overwatch, you know." 

“They're welcome to try and make it on their own," he pointed out. “It's an open invitation for whenever they're ready. An offer." 

Reaper squinted across the table. The glare from the overhead lights obscured his eyes, and somehow, Reaper knew the bastard had done it on purpose. 

“You're not just talking about the civvies and refugees, huh, Morrison." 

Soldier shrugged and shoved a spoonful of rice into his mouth rather than answer. 

  


* * *

  


Gabriel woke with a scream trapped in his throat. He jerked upright, pulse thundering in his ears. Gabriel shivered as a cold sweat trickled down his back. He laid back down on the sheets, trying to ground himself in the rough scratch of standard issue linens. He could still see it, still feel it, even when he grabbed at the bed sheets to remind himself he was still here.

Beside him, Jack croaked out, "Gabe? What is it? What's wrong?" Still half-asleep, his words slurred together. The mattress creaked as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Nothing," Gabriel panted out. "Just a bad dream." He gasped in a lungful of air, sharp and stuttering. He let it out with too much force.

Jack shifted closer and slung an arm over his waist. Rough stubble scraped across his shoulder, and Gabriel relaxed into the warmth. "Just breathe, Gabe. You're okay. I'm okay. Just breathe. Slow, like you taught me."

Inhale. Stale air filtered through his nose, smelling of chemicals and iron. He could feel the prick of the needle, the rush of cold fluid seeping through his veins. Exhale. Each vein a river of black, the pain shuddering through his nervous system like fire. Worse than the SEP. Inhale. His hands dissolved into gouts of oily smoke, lit by the lab's sterile lights. Exhale.

It wasn't working.

Gabriel startled when he felt gun-calloused fingers tap against his shoulder. He heard Jack squeeze his shoulder, firm and reassuring, then inhale for a slow count of ten. Jack held it for five counts, then exhaled. Gabriel copied him, again and again, until his heartbeat slowed.

Jack sat up, and the mattress creaked.

"Wanna talk about it?" Jack's voice, thick and rough with sleep, reverberated through his torso.

Gabriel swallowed and nodded. "Don't know what to say," he haltingly began. "Just afraid, I guess."

More than anything, Gabriel wanted to tell him about the injections with O'Deorain, but Jack didn't even know what the SEP had done to him. If he did, Jack would worry, and he already had so much shit to deal with on a daily basis without learning his husband's genetic code had been fucked up by secret government experiments when _his_ trial turned out just fine. Gabriel could already picture the look of sick guilt on the blond's face. All of that on top of this whole time travel fuckery they'd gotten themselves caught up in? No, better to tell him later, when the time was right. 

"S'okay to be afraid," Jack murmured. "Future's scary." Gabriel felt Jack swallow. "But I'm here for you. I've got your back. Promise." 

Gabriel wanted to chuckle. Even half-asleep, not knowing what the fuck to do, Jack still tried to comfort him. God, it made him so _angry_ sometimes how perfect the blond could be, but really, he was glad Jack had chosen to stay by his side.

"Remember," Jack continued, "they're just dreams. Not real." 

Gabriel shifted himself until he could use Jack's shoulder for a pillow. He tugged the blankets up from the foot of the bed and tucked them both back under, even if Jack would just kick them back to the floor in his sleep.

"Jack?" 

"Yeah, Gabe?" 

"Thanks."

  


* * *

  


Reaper woke up to the crash of splintering wood. He jolted upright, a shotgun materializing in his hand. Old instincts. Here, no one would slip into his room and try to assassinate him, but he hadn't stayed alive this long by becoming complacent. 

A bullet embedded itself into the wall near his head. Reaper cursed and stumbled out of bed. The bright light of the hallway burned his eyes. He blinked away spots and stumbled over to the other door. Inside, Reaper heard another gunshot, then another. The thick door muffled exactly what Jack was saying on the other side but Reaper could guess. He'd heard it all before. 

He banged on the door. "Jack, open up." 

No response.

The silence made him feel ill at ease, but maybe Jack was putting his pistol away. Reaper heard shuffling from inside the room, and then footsteps, slow and heavy, approaching the door.

"Go away." This close, he imagined he could feel the other's warmth through the synthetic wood. 

"Jack." 

"Don't call me that!" 

"It's your name, as much as you pretend otherwise." 

Reaper heard a fist slam into the door. It rattled but didn't break, thank God. "Go away, Gabe." Harsh breathing, shuddering gasps of air. Was he crying? 

He didn't know how long they sat there in silence. Neither of them moved. 

At last, Reaper spoke again. "What was the dream about?" 

"Nothing." 

"Lotta gunfire over nothing. Can't kill ghosts, y'know. You should..." He swallowed, the words thick in his throat. "You should see Ziegler when she gets back. She could give you something." Even if she wasn't that kind of doctor, it was better than nothing. Jack wouldn't open up to a stranger. 

"Sure," Jack said, using the tone of voice that meant he'd do the exact opposite thing. 

Reaper heard Jack get up, the heavy tread of his footsteps growing quieter as he walked away from the door. 

"Jack?" 

Silence. 

He waited there, forehead pressed against the wood, until he felt numb. At last, he stumbled to his feet and trudged back to his room on stiff legs. Reaper collapsed into a cold, empty bed and clutched at the pillow. 

He didn't know why he had expected anything different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Jack and Gabe with their secrets... what could _possibly_ go wrong? Not that Soldier: 76 and Reaper are doing much better... 
> 
> For this theme, I saw [this post](http://reaper-76-week.tumblr.com/post/169387543061/expanded-themes-suggested-ideas) long after I'd finalized my outline, so I took the idea of gratitude in a few different directions.


	4. Defended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack and Gabriel celebrate their tenth anniversary besieged by an army of omnics and Reaper gets invited to a threesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for the tactical mess of this siege.

The shriek of a klaxon startled Jack awake. Beside him, Gabriel thrashed, legs tangled in the mess of sheets at the foot of the bed. Heart pounding in his throat, Jack stumbled out of bed and threw on his clothes with haste, Gabriel mirroring him. 

Dread settled cold and heavy in his stomach. 

"Shirt's on backwards." Gabriel grinned as they jogged down the hall. They fell into the rhythm of an old routine with ease, a lone point of familiarity in the unknown. Sure, everyone they passed wore tactical vests, helmets, and carried weapons—an expected sight on a military base—but the unfamiliar circumstances left him on edge. He knew Gabriel felt the same way—he needed this as much as him. 

Jack shoulder checked him with a playful grin. "My shirt's not gonna matter to whoever's gonna to be shooting at us." 

"Maybe they'll take pity on your horrible fashion sense." Gabriel laughed. "At least one of us knows how to dress without a stylist." 

"Your wardrobe is almost entirely black." 

"And you've worn an American flag on your ass!" 

"On the Fourth of July—a holiday! Besides," he said with a smirk, "you didn't seem to mind it much." 

"Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel's lips curved upward, and he waited until they were alone in the hallway before he murmured, "Once it was on the bedroom floor." 

"Last time I wear a speedo for you," Jack grumbled. 

"I take it back." Gabriel _almost_ sounded contrite. Maybe, after this was all over, Jack would find a way to forgive him. 

They reached the armory—unguarded this time—and stepped inside. Of the few weapons left, Jack collected a rifle and a pulse pistol—useless against an omnic, he knew, unless he got close enough to risk being skewered, but better than nothing. The rifle was next to useless, even with armor-piercing rounds. If it couldn't blow up a tank, it would be little use against an omnic unless he got lucky. 

Outside, the red arrows directed them to the control center. Despite the swarm of personnel, it was easy to find Soldier and Reaper. Everyone—whether deliberate or not—seemed to give the man wearing a bone-white mask a wide berth. By contrast, Soldier seemed the center of attention. 

"Our base is under attack," Soldier deadpanned, "in case it wasn't obvious." He gestured up at the siren before he turned to the soldier at his left. 

Jack tuned out the instructions, his gaze fixated on the three-dimensional holomap of the base. Small, sleek text explained the fortifications. Gabriel frowned at the display, fingers tapping against the guns holstered at his sides as he thought. 

"Your barbwire fence full of holes will do a damn good job of stopping an army of Bastions, OR14s, Eradicators, and Spider Tanks," Reaper said with a snort. 

"That was designed to established a perimeter and warn away humans," Jack said, "not omnics." 

Soldier turned to them and said, "Save being an asshole for later, Reyes." He pointed at the holomap. "There's a single road going in and out of the base, and the death strip between walls should funnel the omnics down it, once the omnics realize they'll lose more forces trying to navigate the landmines, anti-vehicle spikes, and anti-vehicle ditches.

"The reinforced concrete wall should hold them off. We have watchtowers every three klicks, but we're spread thin, even with bolstering our numbers with armed civilians. We've lost too many people." He sighed. "While the base can withstand a siege, it can't last long. We need sleep; the omnics don't. We're relatively self-sufficient, since we grow our own food and scavenge materials, but we'll use more ammunition and supplies than we can manufacture. Including medicine."

Jack frowned. They'd already used up a lot medical supplies helping _them_ , if Gabriel's surgery indicated anything. 

"We sent out a distress call to our away teams, but it's unlikely anyone will reach us in time," Soldier continued. "All we can do is wait." 

"Of course you'll still rely on hope and miracles to win a battle, Morrison," Reaper said. 

"Are we just supposed to throw down our arms and surrender?" Jack asked, even though he wasn't the intended target. 

"You don't know any better." Reaper scoffed. "The tin cans want humanity _exterminated_. If you want to die so much, I could help you now." Reaper rested a hand on the stock of his shotgun. 

"Morale is important." Jack stared into the emotionless mask. Intimidation tactics wouldn't work on him. Hadn't they established that before? 

"Of course you can say that. You don't know how they operate. First, the tin cans will take over smaller outposts, or at least, the ones that were easily surprised. So, they'll cut off communication and force refugees to flee until they reached a safe haven, which will lower morale, cut off supplies, and strain the resources of the larger target." Reaper sounded bitter. 

"The omnics will try to breach the wall, and with luck, we can keep them from scaling it. They might try for the door with Detonators. It's our weakest point." Soldier sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You two—" He pointed at Gabriel and Reaper. "—need to make sure that doesn't happen. We'll cover you." 

Chu cleared her throat and approached. "Sir, the omnic forces are closing in on the perimeter of the base." 

Soldier sighed. "You know the drill, everyone. Stay sharp." 

Jack smiled at Gabriel, who smoothed away the worried frown on his face and tried to smile back. It was a grimace more than anything else, but Jack didn't mind. 

"I'll watch your six."

"Yeah?" Gabriel raised a brow. "And who will watch _your_ ass?" 

Jack chuckled. "Myself, I suppose. Just like you'll have yourself, too. It'll be fun." 

"You need to get out of your office more. You're getting stir-crazy, Jack." 

"Be careful, okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah." Gabriel reached over to clap him on the shoulder. "You, too."

Gabriel turned to head to the defense point and Jack followed close behind. 

Once in position, he inhaled, then exhaled, his heartbeat slowing as he centered himself. In front of him, Gabriel drew his shotguns. He glanced back over his shoulder at Jack and smiled. Jack raised his rifle, the stock solid in his palm, a grin tugging at his lips in turn. Just like old times. 

Time to raise some hell.

* * *

Gabriel hadn't thought he'd be celebrating his tenth anniversary under siege from an army of omnics. Really, the most trouble he had anticipated was the paparazzi interrupting their dinner at that Italian place Jack loved.

With a burst of static, Chu's voice crackled to life in his ear. "E54s and Spider Tanks inbound."

Explosions filled the air, and the distant cries of omnics made him twitch. From his vantage point on the wall, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening, but the tin cans were no doubt entertaining themselves with the minefield. Nothing except dust on the horizon but he knew the omnics were coming.

Gabriel held himself still. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Reaper—it was still too strange to think of the other man as himself—tap his foot, shotguns drawn and ready. It was a cold comfort to know the other man hated waiting like this—better to take the fight to the enemy, or disable them before they could even reach the battlefield.

Like this, the odds were stacked against them, and everyone fucking knew it.

Over the commlink, Chu announced positions and unit compositions, and before long, the omnics began to roll down the road in an unending line. There were thousands of them, more than he'd ever seen before. His hands trembled. He was terrified, and he fucking hated it.

As soon as the omnics got within range, he heard the snipers begin to pick them off, the acrid scent of pulse munitions filling the air and—to his surprise—one woman with conventional ammunition. Petite and stocky, she hefted a customized Hécate IV into position. The anti-material rifle dwarfed her in size, yet she carried it as if it weighed nothing. The woman selected her targets and eliminated them with a smooth precision he envied. By comparison, Jack was doing scratch damage with his rifle, even when he nailed an omnic directly in front of its central cortex. 

No matter how many bullets they fired, however, the omnics came closer and closer to the wall with each passing moment.

God fucking damn it.

"Omnic fighter jets inbound," Chu said, her voice terse. "Shoot them down!"

A dozen fighter jets approached—refitted MV-261 Orcas, Gabriel guessed—and then he watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as one after another, the ack-acks shot them down. Two, however, managed to evade fire, and Gabriel felt a chill run down his spine as they dropped a payload onto a stretch of the wall. The entire base shook, and a thunderous crash filled the air.

Fuck.

"We have a breach!" Soldier barked out over the commlink. Gabriel heard Reaper curse beside him before he vanished into a could of black nanites that streamed towards the site. Gabriel swore under his breath and followed on his own damn two feet. Less flashy, but just as good as a trail of smoke. 

Gabriel cut a path through the omnics, falling into a familiar rhythm. Just like during the Crisis. All he needed was a pair of reliable guns and his own two hands, and if there was one damn thing to be grateful for the SEP for, it was the speed and strength to weave around a Bastion so he could aim at its exposed hip joint and pepper the weak point until the damn thing collapsed into a pile of scrap.

He scanned the scene in front of the rubble where a section of the wall had once stood, and God damn it, he found Soldier taking down a Spider Tank. He would never have noticed him if it wasn't for that awful jacket, and if he ever told Jack, he was never going to live it down. 

"Is he with you?" Soldier asked after he finished off the Spider Tank, his voice ragged.

"What?" Gabriel yelled out. 

"Reaper. Is he with you?" Soldier repeated. 

"No. I thought he was headed here." Soldier uttered a long stream of curses. Gabriel almost felt proud that in his old age, Jack had expanded his vocabulary. 

The commlink crackled to life in his ear, Soldier's voice hoarse. "Reaper! Where are you?" There was no answer. "You're a fucking coward, Gabriel Reyes, saving your own goddamn skin and leaving us to die. I'll see you in hell."

The silver-haired man narrowly missed getting skewered by an OR14, its sword a glowing crimson. Before he could raise his pulse rifle, a precise shot to the central cortex stunned it. Gabriel finished it off with a burst of close-range fire. 

_Jack._

The blond sprinted up to him. "Focus on the task at hand," he growled out. "Survive and worry about it later."

The battle dragged on, and Gabriel tried not to think of how they kept retreating, getting pushed farther and farther back into the base, trapped like motherfucking lambs about to be slaughtered. He was down to his last magazine, and wasn't that just fucking perfect.

Well, he could always start clobbering the Bastions with the stocks. Jack would get to watch them riddle him full of bullets before he got within range, but at least it might make him laugh and remember the time he'd pistol-whipped an insurgent in Caracas. 

Before he could move, however, a new explosion rocked the base.

"What the hell was that?" Soldier barked into the commlink as he fired a missile, of all the goddamn things, into the chassis of an E54.

"The cavalry's here," a voice dryly said behind them with a horrible Cockney accent.

Gabriel whipped around and stared at Reaper as he solidified from gouts of black smoke. One hand held a shotgun and the other held a device of some kind. It looked more like a gamepad than anything else, but Gabriel would save his questions for a time when he wasn't about to get riddled full of bullet holes courtesy of an approaching siege automaton.

A hulking tank cut through the battlefield, crushing the omnics beneath its treads like they were paper. Gabriel finished off the Bastion and stared. Okay, he wanted one. 

"Where the fuck," Soldier panted out beside him, "did you get a Devastator tank?"

"Same place I found twenty more." Reaper shrugged. "Do you want your belated anniversary present or not, Jack?" 

Rather than answer, Soldier informed Chu of the latest development. Then, he turned to Gabriel. "Close your damn mouth. It's just a tank."

Reaper snorted. "Uh-huh. Armed with dual plasma cannons and armor heavy enough to withstand continued anti-mat fire, it's just a tank. Sure, it's as slow as Jack getting out of bed in the morning, but the damn things can be remotely piloted and self-destruct if you overload their nuclear engines."

"How did you even get them here?" Soldier asked as he aimed down the sight of his rifle and took down an OR14 with a well-placed shot.

"Had to fly a plane." Reaper shrugged. "Landing was a bit rough." 

"What you mean to say, Reyes, is that the carrier plane is a smoking wreck somewhere on base, and if we're lucky, it _might_ be salvageable."

"In not so many words: yes."

Gabriel heard Jack—his Jack—laugh, and his cheeks grew hot. Apparently, he hadn't gotten any better at landing planes, and he knew Jack would never let him hear the end of it. Ever.

The Devastators turned the tide of the battle, though they still faced heavy losses—not to mention the damage to the base itself. But they were alive to watch the omnic forces begin to withdraw. It wasn't the first time the tin cans had shown an uncanny sense of self-preservation, and even after all this time, Gabriel found it unsettling. 

In the disquiet after battle, Gabriel had lost track of Jack in the chaos. He scanned the crowded battlefield, full of bodies both living and dead. Acrid smoke stung his eyes. He unlatched his helmet and scrubbed at his eyes.

Where the fuck was Jack?

It was hard to see well this low on the ground: too much rubble, too much debris, too much movement, and too much noise. Gabriel had one foot on the remnants of the wall, intending to get a better vantage point, before someone barreled into him from behind. He fell forward, a rush of breath escaping his lungs as he hit the ground.

Warm lips found his ear. "Hey," Jack said. Question answered.

Gabriel could feel the heave of Jack's chest, hear the breathless grin on his face. He couldn't blame him. Gabriel rolled over and found himself pinned by a solid body, their breath mingling.

High off the adrenaline from the fight, from surviving against impossible odds, it was a perfect time to kiss.

When they pulled away for air, Jack's shoulders began to shake with laughter. "We survived," he said. In the faint light, his blue eyes seemed to glow, ethereal and bright.

"We did," Gabriel confirmed. The blond's grin was infectious.

Jack leaned forward and pressed his nose against Gabriel's chest, his mop of unruly blond hair matted with blood. Gabriel combed through the pale strands with gentle fingers. He stopped only when Jack lifted his head and made a sound of disgust in his throat.

"You stink." 

Gabriel snorted. "As if you smell any better."

"We are still technically on a battlefield, you know," Jack said, as if that excused fuck-all. 

"Yeah? Well, for some reason, I don't find myself in the mood for romance right now." He thumped Jack on the back. "Lift your flat ass a bit. Something's digging into my spine." 

Gabriel propped himself up on his elbows with a grunt and shifted himself to the side—much better. Jack, of course, refused to fucking move, and splayed across him like a human-shaped cat, of all the damned embarrassing things. It was so fucking undignified, Gabriel didn't even know where to begin protesting. 

"You okay, Jack?"

"Yeah."

Two strong arms wrapped around his torso in a sudden, tight hug. Gabriel felt his bones creak in protest. 

"Can't breathe," he wheezed out. 

The blond was going to crack his ribs if he didn't let up soon. Wouldn't have been the first time his enthusiasm had gotten the better of him either, but Gabriel didn't mind in the least. Mr. ‘Bones Heal, Scars Look Good' had probably rubbed off on him after over a decade and a half of knowing each other.

Jack laughed and released him. He could have at least _pretended_ to be apologetic.

Gabriel shifted so they could both sit up and lean against one another. He ached from the bruises and cuts across his body and more than one or two bullet holes. Already, he could feel them begin to heal, the sensation of nanites buzzing beneath his skin, the white-hot pinpricks of pain as nerves began to knit back together.

His eyes slid closed.

Beside him, Jack trembled, limbs jumping and twitching as nerve synapses fired and their bodies began to heal. A hand clasped one of his own and squeezed tight. They both needed to feel grounded.

"Hey Gabe." Jack said after a long silence.

"Yes, Jack?"

"Wanna present?"

Without opening his eyes, Gabriel snorted. He could feel Jack's whole body shaking from silent laughter and oversensitivity. Exhausted, bleeding, and bruised but very much alive, Gabriel knocked their foreheads together, too tired to manage anything else.

"Jack, why the fuck am I going to want the head of an omnic as a present?"

His only response was a bark of laughter.

* * *

The laboratory's doors hissed open. 

"Finally," Soldier said. 

Without turning around, he continued to examine the prototype chronal accelerator in front of him, a mess of exposed wires and open panels. He ached all over, but they didn't have any biotics to spare. Even with the SEP-enhanced healing, his body was slow to heal: the price of getting old. 

Behind him, he heard someone shift, the rustle of clothing betraying a nervous tick. They cleared their throat, and Soldier prepared himself for a stupid question—or worse, some kind of useless attempt at boosting morale, as if he needed to hear his youthful naïveté and idealism slap him in the face. 

He cut him off before he could utter a single word. "You want to ask why I'm the one doing this, rather than anyone else. Don't. You won't like the answer. I don't have time for a goddamn history lesson. If you want one, look it up yourself. The tablet's right there." 

Soldier pointed to his left. 

He heard quiet footsteps approach the table and lift the tablet from its sleek surface. The air filled with a rattling buzz as his communicator nearly vibrated itself off the table, and he answered it with a drawn-out sigh.

_"What?"_

"Jack! Are you okay?" Lena exclaimed. "I got the distress message, but I'm still grounded." 

Soldier rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Heavy losses, but we've pulled through. I doubt it will be the only attack. You may need to pick up some of the away teams; they've been stranded. Chu will send you coordinates."

He stared down at the device on the work table and sighed. 

"Lena," he continued, "do you know anything about the prototypes for _Project: Slipstream?"_

"Maybe." Even through the line, her voice wavered, a hesitation. He knew it was cruel to ask, but he had no other choice. "Why?" 

He explained as best as he was able. His younger counterpart filled in the gaps, much to his chagrin. He had to sound so fucking cheerful, too. If Lena noticed the difference in their speech patterns, she kept silent. 

"At the old Watchpoint, I'd been working on upgrading an old prototype from _Project: Slipstream_ as a spare in case something happened. I wasn't able to bring it with us when we evacuated, but the broken chronal accelerator in the base's lab should be more stable." 

"I have it here," Soldier said. "I'll see what I can do. Be safe, Lena." 

He ended the call with a sigh and turned to face the two—three, he amended, as he finally noticed Reaper standing off to the side. The black-clad man hadn't said a word the entire time he'd been in the room. 

Soldier sighed and examined the device beneath the bright, overhead light. "It's going to take a lot of tinkering to figure this mess out. In the meantime, you should find a way to keep yourselves occupied." When the pair didn't move, Soldier growled out, "Let me rephrase: I don't like working with an audience. Get out." 

He heard two sets of footsteps head towards the door. It hissed open, the footsteps resumed, and the door closed behind them. Then, the laboratory fell silent. 

"I can leave," Reaper said, quiet and subdued. 

"I'm not—" He let out an explosive sigh. "I'm not angry at you. Just them."

"Just _him_ , you mean." 

"Yeah." He wouldn't argue that. "Was I always that annoyingly optimistic?" Soldier hadn't expected an answer, but he paused to give the other man room to interject—just in case. "Stay, if you want." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Should be a chair over there." Soldier jerked his thumb toward the corner.

He held himself perfectly still and waited. When Reaper finally sat down, he continued his work. 

* * *

Jack stretched his arms over his head with a quiet, satisfied groan, pleasantly sore. His spine arched against the wall, the vertebrae popping and cracking as he twisted, first one way then the other. Smiling to himself, Jack couldn't help but reach over gently scratch his fingers against Gabriel's scalp. He leaned into the touch; even unconscious, his husband craved physical contact. The other man looked relaxed, the frown lines and worry creasing his brow softened by sleep. 

He reached over for the tablet resting on the nightstand and tucked a pillow behind his shoulders to keep himself comfortable. Gabriel sighed in his sleep and pressed close to him—cold, as always, even with the sheets tucked around him. Jack navigated to the web browser and began to type in the search engine. He frowned as the news headlines began to pop up—old, dated from years ago—and clicked on one that caught his eye. 

_Fading Glory: On the Trail of Jack Morrison._

It explained a lot about the man he'd apparently become. If the Swiss HQ exploded, he could see himself doing what needed to be done to get the answers and avenge his fallen organization—and husband, he noted, if they had never found Gabriel Reyes' body. Overwatch was their life, after all. He'd never imagined it would be their death, too. 

But that didn't explain Reaper. If Gabriel had truly died, then how… 

The search engine predicted his next query, as if the tablet's owner had scoured the internet for any shreds of information on the mysterious figure in the past. Most of the links indicated his older self had clicked on them before. Some, even dozens of times. Jack selected one, then another, and another. 

A bombing in Barcelona. Mercenary activity in Musamba. Kidnappings. High-profile assassinations. Former Overwatch agents—names and faces he recognized, people he worked with on a daily basis—cropped up multiple times. Talon, too. 

The pieces began to fall into place and the bed creaked as Jack recoiled. Ice flooded through his veins, and he fought down the bile rising in his throat. The tablet fell from his grasp, softly thudding against the carpet. Jack scrambled from the bed, and he stared at the man sleeping on the bed. Innocent. Carefree. He would turn into a monster, but he must have had his reasons. 

It was Gabriel, after all, beneath the cowl and bone-white mask. His husband would never do such things without a reason. A good one. After all, nothing in their lives had ever fit into neat categories of good and evil, black and white, but he found it hard to justify this level of destruction. 

Lacroix and Gabriel had been right about Talon; he had been very, very wrong.

Jack startled when he heard a knock on the door, two quiet raps. He scooped up the fallen tablet and tucked himself back into bed. No time to find his pants scattered among the clothes littering the floor. "Come in," he called out, his voice rough. 

The door opened and Reaper stepped inside. Jack recoiled at the sight, then forced himself to relax. Just Gabriel. It was just Gabriel. No mask, no dark cowl. Street clothes, a bit ragged, yes, but a loose, comfortable hoodie and sweatpants—the kind of outfit his husband only wore when he wanted to lounge around on a lazy Sunday and tell the rest of the world to fuck off. Jack wondered if he was wearing a beanie beneath the raised hood. 

"Sorry for earlier." Reaper hesitated in the middle of the room at the sight of the bed. "He's sorry, too, though he'll never admit it, even under torture." He snorted. 

Jack, cautious, nodded his head. He thought back to their first encounter. No, he hadn't known what Gabriel had done, and even with that knowledge, his answer needed to remain the same. He tried to reconcile the image of his husband and the visions of terrorism and brutal assassinations. Gabriel was still his husband, even with a morbid call sign, even with grey threading through his hair, too many eyes, and razor sharp teeth. 

"The old man sent me to tell you we'll need more time to come up with a working Plan B. Jack—the other Jack—got the device to work, but our tests mangled the item sent through. We haven't tried a living test subject yet." His mouth, shadowed by his hood, quirked into a smile. "Would you like to volunteer?" 

"I'll pass." 

"Good choice." The other man turned to leave.

"Wait." Jack slipped out of bed, heedless of his lack of clothing—nothing his husband hadn't seen before, after all—and placed a hand on his biceps. The other man held himself still. Jack considered him for a moment before enveloping him in a hug. 

After a beat, the older man raised his arms to return the gesture, his posture stiff and rigid. "Why?" 

"I thought you could use one," Jack said with a smile. When he pulled away, nanites clouded around his skin, as if unwilling to break contact, as if the man in front of him wanted to hold onto him and never let go. 

The older Gabriel ruffled his hair. "Go back to your him, Jack, before I start reading this as an invitation for a threesome." He snorted. 

Jack blinked. "Does it count as a threesome if—?" 

A warm, scarred palm clasped over his mouth. "Ask your husband when he wakes up." 

Jack pulled the hand down. "Aren't you—?" 

He shook his head; his smile didn't reach his eyes. "The man you married is there, Jack." He pointed.

Jack turned his head to look at at the bed. His brows furrowed. "I don't understand." 

His only answer was the soft click of a closing door. 

* * *

"Did you know I was invited to a threesome?" 

He didn't look up when the laboratory door hissed open. Instead, he continued to rub at his temples, trying in vain to soothe the ache behind his eyes. His glasses rested atop his head, lost in the wild mop of silver hair. Cool air prickled his bare arms. 

"I won't dignify that question with an answer, _Gabe_." The nickname came bitterly to his lips. 

"Shame. You're missing out, Jack." The words hit him like a slap in the face. His throat tightened.

Light footsteps sounded on the tiled floor and he felt a warm presence at his back. The other man would wait for an answer, however long that took, he knew, and he was too damn old to be manipulated like this anymore. "Why on earth would I even consider it?" he hissed out, roughly scrubbing a hand across his face. 

"Because—" Fingers twined with his own and lowered them down onto the work table. "—you're sad, lonely, and you have a stick up your ass." Chapped lips punctuated each word with a facsimile of a kiss against his forehead and temples; the bastard was smiling. 

"You don't know that." 

The answering chuckle reverberated through his bones. "Oh, but I do." He let go of his hand and lifted the glasses from atop his head, setting them down on the table with a quiet click. "You're still wearing your ring." 

Jack swallowed, his throat dry. 

"Are you still…" He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't finish the thought. 

Dark tendrils of nanites swirled around their entwined hands, a stark contrast against the sterile, white laboratory. The sharp overhead light caught the glint of gunmetal grey silicone, blurred and indistinct without his glasses, but certainly there. 

He stared at the ring until a finger tilted his chin upward. 

Jack stared up into a pair of warm brown eyes, the soft shape of a familiar smile. He half-expected the gentle press of lips against his own, and the ache of his own want surprised him, just a little. It had been so damn long. Then, their lips were touching, chapped and rough, both years out of practice.

None of that mattered.

The kiss, soft and languid, made his chest ache. He reached up and tangled his fingers within Gabriel's hair. Gone was the high and tight haircut; in its place, long, thick curls bled down past his shoulders like curls of smoke. Gabriel groaned into the wet heat of his mouth and Jack tugged him closer. He never wanted it to end; God, he had missed this too much. 

Hands—more claws than human fingers, if Jack was being honest with himself—slid down his torso. Sharp nails slid beneath the hem of his shirt and began to lift the fabric. Jack reached down and stopped them. 

"We're in a lab," he bit out. Gabriel started to pull away but Jack held him close, fingers tightening against his scalp. "Not what I meant." He swallowed thickly. 

_Stay, please._

The man standing above him let out a long, slow sigh, particles of smoke escaping his parted lips. "Say what you mean and mean what you say," Gabriel murmured, as if it was ever as easy as that. 

"We should…" He inhaled a shuddering breath, the taste of ash thick on his tongue. Someone could walk in on them, and wouldn't that be impossible to explain: Jack Morrison, back from the grave, kissing the ghost of a dead man. "Not here." 

A warm hand cupped his jaw. "My room is closer," Gabriel suggested. There was a hitch in his voice. Hesitation. What they had was so fragile, so tenuous, and any wrong move would shatter it to pieces. 

Jack snorted. "Not by much." He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet on unsteady legs. 

Gabriel turned him around with a gentle hand on his hip. This close, he could see the scars on his cheek, the flutter of his lashes, the purse of his lips as he mulled over whatever he was about to say. "Ready?" 

"Get on with it already," Jack grumbled. He gripped the soft fabric of Gabriel's shirt, knuckles white. 

Gabriel huffed out a laugh at his impatience. Jack held his breath and braced himself. The laboratory disappeared in plumes of ink-black smoke, and he felt weightless, free, and more alive than he'd felt in years. 

Jack had missed this feeling, the warmth and intimacy. He hoped—maybe this time—it would last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried a different style with this chapter, with shorter scenes to cut through some of the denser action and move time along faster. I'm still iffy on the end result, but it was a fun experiment! 
> 
> In terms of theme, this chapter takes a more literal—defending each other from enemy combatants—and a more figurative—defending each other's better qualities against their flaws—approach to the theme. The idea that Jack would often defend Gabriel's actions comes up in other chapters, however, so this story _does_ address the theme, albeit in a more roundabout fashion. 
> 
> I couldn't resist a throwing in a reference to an old, somewhat obscure RTS game in several spots, so if you know the video game from where the Devastator tank originally hails from, you get a virtual cookie!


	5. Accountable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack and Gabriel question whether they are destined to repeat their mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! It's been a little while, huh? I hope this chapter makes up for the long absence. It's definitely full of callbacks to previous ones, and it even has some fan-service! 
> 
> As a head's up, I bumped up the rating for the piece to **Mature**. While there's no explicit on-screen sex, there are stronger allusions to sexual content than in previous chapters, and I wanted to play it safe.

Gabriel blinked his eyes open at the soft tickle of hair against his nose. Early morning sunlight peeked through the slats in the blinds, yellow railroad tracks falling across the sleep-rumpled bed. Gabriel groaned and burrowed farther into the crook of a broad shoulder, trying to escape the light. 

"Morning," Gabriel murmured. He pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the arched neck beneath his lips, tasting salt and sweat and musk. His living pillow shivered as his goatee tickled against scarred flesh. Gabriel smiled at the reaction and peered up into impossibly blue eyes. In response, all he received was a wordless sigh. Rather than deter him, however, the sound only encouraged him to redouble his efforts until Jack trembled beneath him. 

When he could take no more, Jack sat up with a creak of the mattress. Without thinking, Gabriel tightened his arms, just in case the other man tried to leave. Dark tendrils of nanites curled around their bodies, cocooning them in soft smudges of shadow: fragile, tenuous, as if a wrong move would shatter them to pieces. 

_Stay, please._

"We have to get up," Jack said, the words rumbling through his chest. 

"Just a little while longer." 

Maybe Gabriel could convince him—just like in the past—with lips, tongue, and teeth. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Jack's mouth. Stubble rasped against his lips as he kissed a path up a strong jaw. Gabriel focused on the spot right below Jack's ear, grinning as Jack shuddered and melted in his arms, just like before, his breathing an uneven rasp in the quiet of their room.

Strong, gun-calloused fingers twined within his hair and, in wordless reprimand, guided his head back down to where Jack was less sensitive. Gabriel made a sound of protest in his throat and nosed into the sleep-warm hollow of Jack's clavicle instead. Sharp teeth skimmed against the jut of bone. 

Jack shivered, breath hitching in his throat. 

The hand in Gabriel's hair began to gently comb through long, sweat-damp locks. 

"Keep going," Gabriel encouraged, eyes sliding closed. He could fall back asleep here, in this world circumscribed by warm skin, soft blankets, the curve of a strong jaw, the slope of a muscled shoulder. _Home._

Nails gently scratched against his scalp, working through knots and tangles with a skill borne from decades of experience. Jack seemed fascinated with his hair, as if he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Gabriel regretted keeping clean-shaven for all those years—pragmatism be damned—if it meant he'd missed out on scalp massages for so long. 

"How'd you sleep?" Gabriel asked. A smile tugged at his lips, fond and wistful. 

He didn't expect an answer, not really, but he wished for one all the same. Oh, he knew better than to think one night could mend the broken bridges that had made them strangers, but for a single, precious moment, he allowed himself to forget. 

Gabriel lost himself in the creak of the firm mattress—neither of them tolerated anything soft or yielding, not after years of sleeping on hard ground—and the warm tangle of limbs beneath threadbare sheets. Who would have thought he'd ever miss the taste of sweat mingling with the bitter tang of standard-issue soap? The scent of Jack lay heavy and thick on his tongue, familiar as the oxygen in the air.

Gabriel trailed his fingers through the dusting of hair across the scarred abdomen beneath his cheek. He followed an old, well-traced path, their history stitched onto a tapestry of flesh and blood. The raised slash from a knife wound gained during a training exercise during the SEP; the rough, mottled skin from burning debris; the scattering of stars where shotgun pellets had embedded themselves into his body. 

When Gabriel splayed his hand across the last scar, Jack grunted and held himself still. Gabriel rolled over, unable to stop himself from licking and nipping a path down his torso, relishing the gasp when he pressed a chaste kiss against the mangled skin. 

Jack tugged at Gabriel's hair before he could go any farther, his expression inscrutable from Gabriel's low angle except for the slight pinching between his brows. 

The squealing of the bed drowned out Gabriel's sigh. "I could get used to this again," he teased as he dragged himself upright. "Waking up beside you…" He trailed off with a chuckle. "It's not so bad, even if you do kick all the blankets to the floor." 

Jack snorted and reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Gabriel leaned into the caress and moved closer out of habit. Gabriel closed the distance between them and sighed into the kiss. 

Rather than respond as expected, however, Jack held himself still, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

Gabriel pulled back and his hands fell to his sides. "Jack?" he asked, brows drawn together. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The word came too quick, too forceful to be the truth. "Just thinking." 

Gabriel looked away, smooth and controlled. Nothing was wrong, after all. Jack couldn't see the hurt undoubtedly visible on his face. If he was being honest with himself for once—Gabriel couldn't look him in the eye and see the lie on his lips, knowing it came from good intentions. They'd already hurt each other so much. It was so easy. Too easy. But he wanted to pretend for Jack's sake, if nothing else. 

The mattress creaked and dipped. Gabriel startled at the brush of a warm, calloused hand against his knee. 

"It wasn't you," Jack said. "I just got caught up in my head, just like always. That's all." He held out his hand. "So c'mere, Gabe."

Whenever Jack smiled at him like that… God, when had he turned into such a sentimental fucker? 

Gabriel allowed Jack to pull him over and guide their lips back together. Wishing he could mean it, Gabriel allowed Jack to pull him over and guide their lips back together like nothing was wrong.

He relaxed into the kiss with a soft sigh, the space between them warm and intimate. It was easy to lose himself in the feeling of strong hands threading through his hair, the rest of the world a distant worry. Pressed this close together, Gabriel could feel the tension in Jack's shoulders, the tremble in his hands. He pulled away with a soft sound and pressed his forehead into the hollow of Jack's shoulder. 

He wanted to take him at his word. He did. 

"We could have slept in today," Gabriel murmured. Here, he could listen to Jack's heartbeat: solid, grounding, and familiar. Nothing was wrong, he repeated to himself. 

Jack snorted. "When have we ever managed that? Been waking up at the same godless hour for thirty years." Jack's fingers tangled within his own, softening his words with warm, wordless encouragement. "But there's a first time for everything, right? Maybe we can try tomorrow." 

"Maybe." A smile ghosted across his face, and he felt Jack twitch. "You still ticklish?" 

"No comment." 

Gabriel laughed, and almost immediately, Jack shoved his head away with a look of fond exasperation. This, at least, was genuine. 

"You and your facial hair," Jack muttered darkly. 

"Oh?" Gabriel raised a brow. "That's not what you said last night." 

"Last night was…" 

"Last night was... nice," Gabriel finished. He ached, just like always, but here and now, the twinge of pain in his muscles made him smile: something soft, vulnerable, and _satisfied_.

Jack folded his hands together with a creak of his joints, the knuckles white and bloodless. 

"Don't look at me like that, Jack. It's a good word. This is _nice_." 

He expected a retort, maybe even another lecture on better word choice, as if Gabriel didn't use weak words on purpose, just to get a reaction. It was familiar, harmless banter. Despite his words and actions, Jack appreciated jokes, or at the very least, he appreciated Gabriel's sense of humor. 

Otherwise, Jack was better at hiding his true thoughts than Gabriel had assumed. 

Jack's throat bobbed with an audible swallow. His mouth opened but no sound came out except for a quiet click. "Sorry," he rasped. "I got distracted." 

Well, that wouldn't do at all, would it? 

"I could distract you some more, if you want," Gabriel said with a playful grin. He slid into Jack's lap, but for a split second, Jack couldn't hide the wild panic in his eyes.

Gabriel froze. He kept making the same mistakes over and over again. That, too, at least, was familiar. 

"Jack, we don't have to if—" 

"I'm fine," Jack interrupted, tugging Gabriel forward until their chests touched. 

"You don't look fine to me, Jack." Gabriel cupped Jack's cheek, gently thumbing over the scars, the rough stubble shadowing his jaw. "No need to force yourself for my sake." 

"But I do," Jack admitted with a hoarse whisper, his gaze drawn down to the bed sheets pooled in his lap. "Nothing is wrong," Jack ground out, hands fisted in the bed sheets. Which always, without a doubt, meant the exact opposite. 

He could have been speaking to either of them. 

Dread settled in Gabriel's stomach, cold and leaden. The mattress loudly complained as he shifted backward on the bed, the space between them feeling infinite and vast, even though it was only a few inches at most. He searched the room for something to look at before he did something he would really regret. The wall, at least, wouldn't lie to him. 

"Nothing, huh?" 

Guilt gnawed its way through his stomach, and he hated it. Hated feeling so helpless, hated feeling so wrong, even when he'd done everything he possibly could to fix things.

Unlike Jack. 

"You said it yourself last night: say what you mean and mean what you say." His voice hitched in his throat. "Nothing—absolutely nothing—is wrong," Jack repeated. "There's no reason I shouldn't… I want this. I do. Please…" He inhaled a ragged breath. "I want this to work." 

"Then why do you look like you'd rather be anywhere else?" Gabriel asked. His hands tightened into fists, the nails biting into his palms. The pain grounded him, kept him present and hyper-focused, sharpening his anger to a honed edge. 

"I don't—" Jack exhaled a sharp breath. "I don't _want_ to leave. I don't want _you_ to leave either, Gabe. I just… I don't know if I can do this again," he admitted, his voice cracking on the last word. "It has nothing to do with you. I just need more time." 

Shadows stretched across the floor and walls, swallowing up the sunlight in the room in a sudden surge of movement. The mattress springs groaned, and despite himself, Gabriel turned to look at Jack, whose face was carefully—oh-so carefully—blank. When Gabriel looked down, needing to look at anything else, instead of normal, human-shaped nails, his fingers had morphed into black claws. He didn't know what his face looked like, but Jack's expression had told him everything he needed to know. 

He met the other man's gaze gaze and held it. "Jack." 

"Yes, Gabe?" 

"Are you scared of me?" 

"No." The answer came without hesitation. 

"Really? Interesting. Is that why you're trembling?"

"I'm trembling because I'm—" Jack cut himself off. "I'm not scared of _you_ , goddamn it. Or any of that." Jack gestured sharply around the room. The nanites had engulfed the entirety of the space, leaving the bed a lone island drowning an ocean of writhing black. "I don't give a damn if you have too many eyes or more teeth than the Osmond family. None of that matters to me."

He wanted to believe him. He did. But he knew better now. 

"Fuck, Gabe. You're still you, even if you think otherwise," Jack said when it was clear he wouldn't answer. "All this is… I am _scared_ of rushing head-long into things again, not when we haven't… you know." 

Oh, he did, but they were talking now, he wanted to say. It just wasn't the right conversation. It wasn't the right place, the right time, the right _life_. 

Jack let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "I just need to take things slow." 

For a moment, he thought he'd misheard. It had to be a trick somehow, but no, he knew exactly what he'd heard. How many times had Jack used that line on him? 

Too many. 

His stomach twisted, Over a monstrous roar, he heard his heartbeat pound in his ears, too loud, too fast, as if it wanted to break free from his chest. 

No matter what he did now, it would end the same exact way it always did, and he was tired, so very tired, of being the only one who cared enough to try. 

And in that moment, everything slid into place. 

"Of _course_ you do," Gabriels snarled. "We'll take things slow so you have time to build up the walls between us, so that you can pull away when it gets too much, when I get too much. Because you can't reconcile what I've done and the man you love. Because something always, always goes wrong and you fucking run away rather than deal with the problem head-on." 

Gabriel wouldn't beg, not again, but oh, for a moment, he wanted to get down on his knees and plead because he knew—they both knew—how this was going to end. It was like they had a fucking script at this point. If the world hadn't gone to shit, they could have sold the rights to a Hollywood producer.

"No, _Reaper_ ," the other man spat out, "I don't care about all of that. If I did—" His hand tightened into a white-knuckled fist. "If I did, I wouldn't be here right now because you have—we _both_ have—done all sorts of damnable things in the name of what we thought was right." He bared his teeth, the snarl pulling at the scars across his face. 

A lifetime ago, when Gabriel had visited a quiet farm outside of Bloomington, he had seen an injured barnyard tom—this wild, feral scrap of a feline—backed into a corner. The cat had clawed and hissed at everyone who came near, even those who wanted to help. It had been a ball of bristling silver fur and pained blue eyes, too. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled a long, slow breath, exhaling a stream of oily smoke. When he opened his eyes, his lips twisted downward into a bitter smile. 

"Spoken like a true soldier," Reaper said. 

The man seated across from him said nothing, merely picking at a loose thread in the fitted sheet, because of course he fucking did. He knew how to push his every button, knowing that the worst thing said was absolutely nothing at all. 

Reaper wanted a reaction, wanted an excuse to hurt him in turn, and if he kept silent, locked his feelings behind a façade, he wouldn't get the opportunity. 

Fucking bastard. 

"You're too stubborn and afraid—yes, _afraid_ , you goddamn coward—to let yourself be happy," Reaper quietly said, despite knowing he should leave before he ruined everything. "Now that you remember how good it can be, it'll be a thousand times worse when you lose it again, right? So, it's better to keep yourself closed off and pretend you don't want this as much as I do. Well, congratu-fucking-lations—you have a self-fulfilling prophecy." 

In his peripheral, Reaper could see the nanites storming around him. Tendrils of black smoke stirred the bed sheets and strained towards the other man, and yet Soldier watched them with a steady, even gaze, as if it was the most commonplace experience in the world to share a bed with a monster. 

Reaper wanted to _tear_ the reaction out of him. 

The nanites surged forward, ready to engulf the silver-haired bastard in a billowing mass of shadows and never let him out. 

Rather than recoil like any goddamn normal person, Soldier merely sat there, meeting his gaze without even flinching. He blinked, slow and even, a silent dare in his stupidly blue eyes. 

In that moment, Reaper knew Soldier would have let him do whatever the fuck he wanted, and he almost closed the distance between them just to make him hurt. But no, that was what Jack wanted, and this wasn't about him—not this time. 

Reaper snarled under his breath and the nanites retreated. 

Soldier remained silent, continuing to toy with the loose string, winding and unwinding it around one finger until it finally, finally _snapped_. 

"I don't know what you want me to say," Soldier said at last. He continued to stare down at the pieces of broken string without really seeing them. Still lost in his own goddamn thoughts, it seemed, but Reaper wasn't going to give him the courtesy of helping him out of that headspace, not anymore. 

"You're so stubborn. Always was one of your best—and worst—qualities. You're just sitting there, thinking about God-knows-what. Probably guilt-tripping yourself again. It's always, always your fault, yet you're too afraid to change because that's terrifying. Almost as terrifying as letting yourself be happy for once in your goddamn life. For all you say you want this—" Here, he gestured at the nanites creeping onto the bed, threatening to swallow them in a writhing sea of black. "—and _me_ , your actions say the exact opposite." 

Soldier inhaled a sharp breath through his nose, a retort ready on his lips, but Reaper couldn't have that. If he stopped talking now, he wouldn't be able to say what he needed to get off his chest after so fucking long. He kept on going, consequences be damned.

"We've spent _years_ fighting and hurting each other, promising to change, to fix things, and all for what? To repeat the same mistakes as before. 'Everyone deserves another chance,'" Reaper spat out. "But nothing ever fucking changes and it all just falls apart again." 

The same thing over and over again. Past, present, and future all written in stone, doomed to repeat until the end of the fucking world—and even after, considering their present situation. 

"I'm not going to—" Reaper sucked in a harsh breath and then continued. "I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired of wondering how this is all going to end. We've gone through all of this before. It's nothing new. But this time?" The words caught in his throat. For a moment, he wanted to reconsider, to apologize and make things right. All he had to do was stop right then and there, but he'd passed the point of no return a lifetime ago. 

There was no going back, not anymore. 

"This time," he began, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, "I'm going to leave. Haven't done that in a while, I think. Always was more of _your_ style." 

His breath came in jagged pants, the pounding of his heartbeat drowning out all the other sounds in the darkened room. Reaper quivered and tried to squeeze himself into a smaller, more compact form, desperately trying to remember how to be human. He tried to remember tired brown eyes lined with fine wrinkles, the creases along his mouth, the comforting weight of fingers twined within his own—hands, nails, calluses. Not monstrous, razor sharp claws and blackened skin oozing vicious trails of smoke. 

Reaper willed his hands back into their usual, familiar shape: neat, well-trimmed nails, a light dusting of dark hair, old scars crisscrossing mottled skin. The hands Jack had always complained were too rough, even as he kissed each and every scar and massaged away the aches and pains. The hands that— 

He wanted to laugh as the memories washed over him: scarred lips pressing gentle kisses against his knuckles, teeth closing around his ring finger hard enough to draw blood—a mockery of a wedding band. Back then, neither of them could have known what they'd one day mean to each other. 

A shudder wracked through him then, rippling up his spine with enough force to hurt. 

When he looked down, Reaper saw his hands grow blurred and indistinct, like an unfocus camera lens, then shrink back into the familiar fingers. 

A warm, calloused hand clasped his wrist and tugged him forward. Against his better judgment, Reaper allowed the motion. 

"Gabe," Soldier gently began, thumbing the web between his thumb and forefinger, "we've been dancing around each other for decades, pretending we don't have things we need to discuss, pretending everything was fine even though it was anything but that. We'd lose ourselves in how good and right being together felt until everything collapsed around us. Literally, in one case." There was a faint note of amusement in his voice. 

Reaper wanted to laugh and retort with a macabre joke of his own, but he stayed silent. He couldn't do it, not if he wanted to stay true to his earlier words. 

He clenched his fists and started to pull away. Soldier dug his fingers into bone, holding on tighter, as if unwilling to let him go now that he was on the receiving end. But that was the problem, wasn't it? It would be so goddamn easy to fall back into their old routine, like a record needle fitting back into a groove. It was so tempting. 

There was no going back now, no matter what he wanted. 

Steeling his resolve, Reaper shoved himself away. Soldier held on for a moment too long, and he almost lost his balance, catching himself with one hand against the tousled sheets. Reaper swung his legs off the bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. He turned towards the door with a sharp turn on his heel, shadows coalescing around him with each step forward. Reaper crossed the room, more monster than man, wreathed in gouts of ink-black smoke. 

Behind him, he heard the worn mattress springs creak as Soldier shifted on the bed. 

"Gabe, wait. I—" 

The door closed behind him with a soft click, cutting off the choked sound that could have either been a laugh or a sob.

* * *

Jack opened his eyes and sat up, scrubbing the grit from his eyes. The only sounds in the room were the soft breathing beside him and the quiet hiss of pipes. Had he forgotten to turn his alarm on last night? Jack blinked, yawned, and stretched his arms over his head, listening to his spine crack.

Oh. Right.

Twenty years into the future. The base had been assaulted by omnics the day before, and their only chance of getting back to the past—still a strange concept to wrap his mind around—was a smouldering pile of scrap on a laboratory workbench.

"What time's it?" Gabriel mumbled into his hip, each word punctuated by the tickle of his goatee against bare skin. 

"No idea. Our communicators are dead, remember?"

Gabriel expressed his discontent with a grunt and then tugged the sheets back over his head. "Too early then."

Jack glanced at the early morning light streaming through the window, amusement softening the tired lines framing his eyes. "The sun's already up, dear husband of mine."

"The sun can go to hell," Gabriel said with venom. For a brief moment, Jack considered making sure none of the terrorist groups Overwatch tracked had plans for a weaponized orbital satellite, just in case his husband decided to embezzle Overwatch funding in order to purchase one and destroy the sun. Gabriel would do it, too, if only to see Jack's reaction, no doubt laughing until he pissed his pants. 

...oh God, he was starting to sound like Gabriel.

Caught in his thoughts, Jack startled when a large hand began to wander beneath the blanket, the callouses rough against his sleep-warm skin. Jack trapped the questing appendage between his thighs. "If you're awake enough to get handsy, you're awake enough to get out of bed, Gabe."

"Fine, fine," Gabriel groused. He sat up with a petulant groan. "Remind me again: why the fuck did I marry a morning person?"

"Because he's the only one that puts up with your constant bitching. Plus, the sex is pretty good." Grinning, Jack leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Gabriel's forehead before he slipped out from beneath the covers, narrowly avoiding the hand reaching out to haul him back into bed.

Jack shivered at the cool tile beneath his feet as he padded into the cramped bathroom. He almost wanted to crawl back into bed, but one of them had to be responsible. The fluorescent light in the bathroom flickered on as he stepped into the cramped room, highlighting the dark circles beneath his eyes.

At least the swelling faded to a sunrise-colored bruise: gold, pink, and purple smeared around his eye. In another day or so, no one would be able to tell his husband's future self had punched him in the face. If the SEP had been good for anything…

Shaking his head, Jack turned the faucet on and waited until the water ran clear. He bent over to splash it on his face and felt strong arms wrap around his waist. When he straightened, a sharp chin settled on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you manage to do that even though we're the same height." Gabriel answered him with a playful nip to his neck. He was ridiculous and it was one of the reasons why Jack loved him. "The last time you did this, I almost slit my own throat shaving."

"You're starting to sound like me," Gabriel murmured into the damp skin of his neck, chasing the line of his jaw up to his ear with languid kisses. "Loud." A kiss. "Dramatic." A sharp nip. "And sexy." Teeth caught the shell of his ear, digging into sensitive skin, and a wet tongue soothed over the hurt. 

Jack shivered and tried to hold onto his self-control or they would never leave. "Sometimes, I wonder why I married you," he dryly said.

"The sex is good?" Gabriel offered, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

"It's good enough for me," Jack agreed.

Once he'd successfully extracted himself, Jack rummaged around in the medicine cabinet until he found a pair of sealed toothbrushes and a half-full tube of toothpaste. 

The exact moment he tried to squeeze a pearl of toothpaste onto the brush, however, Gabriel's lips located the sensitive patch of skin beneath his ear. Startled, Jack crushed the tube in his hands with too much force, squirting a thick glob of toothpaste onto the porcelain sink. For a moment, Jack simply stared at the mess and blinked. It was everywhere.

"I'll clean it up." Gabriel even sounded contrite, too, as if he had any intention of following through with the promise. They both knew otherwise. Gabriel hated cleaning more than anything else in the goddamn world, behind Jack's taste in music—for some reason—and bad coffee. Warm lips teased the ridge of ear, along with the gentle threat of teeth, and if he intended to make up for his mistake that way… Jack shoved Gabriel away with a roll of his eyes.

"We both know you won't do it. I'm trying to get ready here." He brandished the toothbrush between them as if it was a weapon. A plastic, pink sword dripping suds of toothpaste onto the floor—a sight so ludicrous, they both began laughing at the same time. 

Gabriel, by some goddamn miracle, behaved after that.

After some jabs about mixing up their borrowed clothing and inside-out shirts, they finally made it out of the room—properly dressed, too. In apology, Gabriel had even found him a razor, the little good it would do. His stubble would be back by midday. 

They followed the red lines on the walls directing them towards the mess. No one they passed offered them more than a tight-lipped smile and murmured greeting. This section of the base may have survived the prior day's assault in one piece, but as they neared the structural damage, their boots tracked dust with each step. 

Inside the mess itself, the room remained quiet and sombre. They gathered their breakfast—cold, rehydrated eggs, limp toast, and lukewarm mugs of instant coffee—and found a table in the back of the room. Conversation filled the room at a hushed whisper, if the people scattered around the room could even bring themselves to speak at all. Jack couldn't bring himself to break the silence and Gabriel, it seemed, felt the same way.

Before Jack could shovel a spoonful of eggs into his mouth, he felt a kick on his shin and set the utensil down. Across the table, Gabriel nudged a bottle of hot sauce his way. Rolling his eyes, Jack uncapped it and poured a few drops. He braced himself before shoving it into his mouth. Thank God, it wasn't that spicy. Sure, the faux eggs still tasted like styrofoam and chemicals, but they were somewhat edible now—a fair price to pay, even if he'd have to deal with Gabriel's smug grin for the rest of the day and the unspoken, 'I told you so.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw someone approach them, stop a foot away from their table, and clear their throat. 

"Good morning," Chu greeted them, her eyes red-tinged and swollen. "I realize you have more pressing matters to deal with at present, but I was hoping you might be willing to help us out in the meantime. We are rather… short on able-bodied men and women." Her voice caught mid-sentence, and she cleared her throat with a quiet cough. "The commander should have an idea of where best to put you in order to avoid any complications."

"We understand," Jack said, offering her a smile. It felt more like a grimace, but from the relief flooding across the tired woman's face, she appreciated it. She offered one of her own in return before she walked away.

Once alone, Jack sat back in his chair turned to meet Gabriel's gaze. He let out a soft sigh when he felt warm fingers twine within his own beneath the table. Death, for them, was nothing new, but it was still never _easy_. Jack didn't want to become the man who could look at death as numbers on a page, condolence letters to sign off without a second thought. Gabriel and Dr. Rosenburg said he needed more distance, that it wasn't healthy to take these things so personally. but if Jack listened to them, he would make his future self's first mistake.

Jack shook his head to clear the thought and turned back to his food.

"You okay?" Gabriel asked, toying with his fork.

"Yeah." His answer sounded dull, even to his own ears, but it was all about putting on appearances—neither of them believed it. 

Jack shoved his tray away. He needed to make himself useful. "C'mon, Gabe." He scooped up Gabriel's tray out of habit and put them away before joining Gabriel at the door.

Now, where was the former Strike Commander of Overwatch?

* * *

It took them longer to find him than Jack expected, but after some misheard directions and wild guesses, they found Soldier in the armory, seated at a small bench with two piles of pistols on either side of him. 

The room smelled faintly of cloves and tobacco. Jack turned to look at Gabriel, studying him. No reaction, aside from an impatient tap of his finger against his fatigues. Gabriel had quit smoking over a decade ago. 

Soldier didn't look up when they entered, his attention focused down on the pistol in his hands. The slight pause and tilt of his head was the only acknowledgement of their approach. He ejected the magazine, cycled the chamber, and locked the slide with quick, deft motions. Then, he tilted the gun so he could peer down the barrel to check for obstructions or damage and reassembled it with an efficiency Jack envied. 

"Soldier," Jack said, the name—no, the title—strange on his lips. "Chu sent us here." Not a lie, but not the entire truth either. "Where can we help?" 

The silver-haired man sighed and looked up, the visor and face plate obscuring his expression. "We need any extra bodies to patrol the perimeter." Soldier folded and unfolded the microfiber cloth in his hands. "Medical wing has enough staff, so you'd best find somewhere else to help. We're still pulling bodies out of the rubble. Could have been worse. If you think you'll be useful, go ahead." He shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his work. 

Dismissed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack watched Gabriel touch two fingers to his temple, and he knew, even from this poor angle, the shit-eating grin spreading across Gabriel's face even as his eyes burned with the kind of anger that would spark into violence. Jack set a hand on his lower back and guided him to the door, urging him forward every time he stopped and attempted to turn back around. 

Jack stopped two feet from the entrance and motioned for Gabriel to continue on without him. Gabriel's scowl deepened, but he nodded once and stepped beyond the threshold. The door closed between them, and Jack turned back around, walking forward until the bench nearly bumped into his hips. 

"You did the best you could," Jack offered. 

Soldier paused his work and reached up to unlatch his visor and face plate with a hiss of pressurized air. He set them beside the handguns and leaned back in his chair until he could meet Jack's gaze. In so many ways, it was like staring at his reflection in a mirror, except everything about it was wrong. 

"I don't need your hollow validation, kid." 

"I'm not—" Jack cut himself off. He inhaled a sharp breath through his nose and exhaled it through his mouth, long and slow. "I suppose, in many ways, I am a child compared to you." 

Soldier snorted and leaned forward, breaking eye contact. He began dismantling another handgun with a series of sharp clicks. "That all you have to say?" 

His older self wanted a reaction, and Jack refused to give him the satisfaction. After all, he hadn't stayed behind to pick a fight. Ma had always said, if he couldn't say something nice, he shouldn't say anything at all. It seemed his older self had forgotten that lesson, among countless other things.

Jack watched the man in front of him—a future him, no less—stripped of name and rank, working through his inspection without saying a word. He held himself still, falling into a comfortable stance, the kind he could maintain for hours if necessary. 

The silence dragged on.

At last, when he finished his inspection, Soldier set aside the pile of pistols and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the faded label on the cardboard familiar. Soldier selected one and lit it. 

"I assume you had a fun history lesson, and you're no doubt brimming with questions." 

As he inhaled the scent of tobacco and cloves, Jack searched for the right words, a safe line of conversation. 

There wasn't one. 

Instead, he tried for the least damaging option. "The news articles never said anything about me—us, I suppose—taking up smoking. That was always Gabe's way to de-stress, though he hasn't smoked in years." 

Jack had meant to keep it casual, but the moment he finished speaking, Soldier leaned forward like a shark that had scented blood. 

"Are you so sure about that? Maybe he just doesn't want to worry you. Wouldn't be the first thing he's kept from you—or the last." The cigarette dangled from between his thumb and index finger. Gabriel had always held them that way. "Doubt you'd react well to learning he kept up his habit of smoking a pack pre-op to steady his nerves in secret." 

Jack kept his half-smile in place and filed that information away for the right time and place. 

"I guess you would know that better than me," he said with a shrug of his shoulder. "Gabe should know better. Smoking's bad—even for people like us."

Despite himself, his gaze kept straying back to the faded label on the box of cigarettes. It had been ages since he last saw them. Where… No, _how_ had Gabriel hid them for so long?

What else was he hiding? 

Jack steeled himself. For some God-awful reason, his older self wanted him to doubt Gabriel, wanted Jack to question him. Maybe he was antagonizing him because he was jealous. It was the kind of thought Gabriel would have, if he'd been there. 

Soldier snorted. Jack would have paid good money to know what, precisely, was so amusing. 

"Trust me, you won't be together long enough to see how it all turns out, kid." Soldier exhaled a plume of smoke. "If you can change anything, you should heed my advice and leave. Not just Gabriel but Overwatch, too."

Jack bent his head forward and studied the scratches and scuff marks on his boots. He didn't look up when the other man continued to speak. 

"I know what you're thinking right now, but trust me, it's a lost cause. Whenever _he's_ involved, you always make the wrong decision." 

Across the table, leather creaked. "This time, do the right thing and walk away."

Ah. Jack looked up and locked eyes with his future self, his gaze steady and even. 

"Is that what you did?" he asked. 

"No, I didn't leave. That was my mistake." He took a drag on his new cigarette. "Instead, I chose Overwatch over him, because in my mind that was the best solution. I couldn't sacrifice the world for the sake of a single person, even if he was the most important thing in my life. I got so caught up in bullshit that I didn't see what was happening until it was too late." 

Jack's throat tightened. One by one, the missing pieces fell into place. There had to be a way. Somehow. 

"And you wish you had?" 

Soldier exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke, the silver tendrils curling up towards the ceiling. "Being the Strike Commander of Overwatch meant carrying the world's burdens on our shoulders. We knew that when we accepted the position, but we knew we could handle it. For the longest time, we did."

It was a cold comfort. 

"Then Talon happened. Then Numbani. Santiago. Kurjikstan. Musamba. Oslo. Venice. Hanamura. Cairo. King's Row." He ticked off a finger for each name. 

Jack inhaled a sharp breath through his nose. "What's so important about Musamba? What's going to happen on that mission?" 

Soldier shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. "You'll find out soon enough." 

Jack's mind raced through possible plans, trying and failing to find a solution, something, anything. But he couldn't save them, save Gabe, save himself without more information. 

"If you know something I don't know, tell me. Our contacts within the Musamban government have reached out about concerns with—" He cut himself off as the realization sunk in with a sickening sense of dread. He could see the answer on Soldier's face. "It's nothing you don't already know." 

More to the point, he didn't care, but why would he? 

For the man seated across from him, the events in Musamba were just a distant memory, facts, figures, and summaries from a report sent to Petras. It was different for Jack, who would have to endure the fallout, the agents buried with flags laid over coffins by the Strike Commander himself, the public relations disaster, and God knew what else. For a moment, Jack considered asking for a cigarette of his own. 

Instead, he changed the subject. 

"You know," Jack said, fighting to keep his tone level, "I may not have as much experience with him as you, but I know him well enough. I can always predict Gabe's every move before he'll make it. Always have. Always will." 

He met the gaze of his older self without flinching. Sharp, blue eyes considered him, so familiar and yet so different: colder and hardened, like crack and tumble of glacial ice. "Do you really?" 

"I do." Jack inhaled a quavering breath. "I do," he said with more confidence. "Except…" He swallowed thickly. "I know he's under a lot of pressure right now. He feels like he can't talk to anyone about it, so he's pulled away to suffer alone, and I don't know what to do aside from giving him the space he needs." 

"Yeah? I'm sure that's worked out just great for you both." Soldier chuckled, low and harsh. "When exactly were you going to talk to him about these issues, huh? 'When we have time.' 'Not now.' 'Tomorrow.' 'Can this wait?'" he rattled off each phrase as if reciting an old script. And maybe he was. "You'll keep putting off the conversations you need to have until it's too late." 

Jack's hands balled into fists at his sides. "When did you become so angry, bitter, and blind?" 

Soldier scoffed. "Simple. Since half a building collapsed onto me and everything I cared about died in a mountain of smoke and burning rubble. I lost everything that day: myself, the man who meant the world to me, and the only goddamn thing I had left in the world, its named dragged through the mud and vilified by history. And to tell you the truth?" He exhaled a plume of smoke. "Kid, we were always blind." 

"I'm not you," Jack told himself. "I won't make your mistakes." He turned on his heel and swiftly marched to the door. It door hissed closed behind him, the scent of tobacco and cloves thick in his nostrils.

* * *

Gabriel found Reaper at the shooting range without much difficulty. 

His future self wore a set of tired, sagging clothes, a far cry from when they'd last seen each other as two men dressed for war. Here and now, Gabriel wasn't about to point out the questionable fashion choices of a man aiming down the barrel of a shotgun designed to take down a tank with ease. Hell, Gabriel knew what _he_ looked like right now, and he would probably throw a punch if someone mentioned how he hadn't worn so much black since he'd been in high school. Still, how the did the other man not know, or worse, not _care_ , that the mustard yellow sweatshirt clashed horribly with his— _their_ —skin tone?

Reaper reloaded with quick, efficient motions but rather than continue to fire, he slid out his ear plugs and turned to face his younger self. The older man tossed back his hood, and the bright, overhead light showed the age on his face, similar yet foreign when compared to Gabriel's own features: the same facial structure, same parallel scars on his right cheek, same mouth twisted down into an angry scowl, even the same goddamn style of beard.

Gabriel didn't know whether to be amused or comforted by the knowledge that even twenty years after he'd left the military, he'd kept his beard within regulation standards. The long hair tied back at the base of his skull, however, was a surprise. Still, it looked good. Real good. It was something to consider for the future, if he ever got to retire.

Huh. Did that make him a narcissist? He'd ask Jack later.

"Fancy meeting you here," Reaper said, his voice too pleasant, too conversational, as if they were old friends. Not too far from the mark, all things considered, but there weren't enough proper tenses to describe the mind fuckery of time travel. Reaper knew him, but he was a stranger to Gabriel. The other man could read him like a goddamn open book, knew each and every one of his tells, and he would use them to his advantage, the motherfucker. 

Well. Just fucker. Wasn't like either of them had a mother anymore. 

"Cut the crap," Gabriel growled. "Do I look like Jack? Save the bullshit pleasantry for him. I don't have time for them when there are important things to discuss."

Reaper set his shotgun down with a chuckle, the sound halfway between amusement and disbelief. "I forgot how much of an asshole I was back then. Hindsight is everything, I suppose." He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. 

God, was _he_ this much of a smug, fucking asshole all the time? Gabriel was going to apologize to everyone when he got the chance. Ana would never let him hear the end of it. 

"I can guess why you're here. Ask a question, and I'll answer to the best of my ability. Not sure if I should tell you much of anything, but I figure it's safe." Reaper paused, examining him from head to toe. He had the same glint in his eyes as O'Deorain did whenever Gabriel entered her rat lab. The bird-looking bastard was doing it on purpose, just to get under his skin. 

Gabriel tucked his hands into his pockets before he decked him—himself?—across the jaw. "After all," Reaper continued, "us meeting face-to-face hasn't broken the time-space continuum, caused the cessation of our existence the moment our eyes met, or led to any other timey wimey bullshit. When you go back, at best you'll remember bits and pieces. At worst, you'll think this was all some twisted fever dream."

Reaper shrugged, and despite the shadows beneath his hood obscuring his face, Gabriel knew he was smiling: the smug confidence of a man who knew absolutely everything and enjoyed making sure you knew it, too. After all, he'd done it enough himself. 

Despite that certainty, however, Gabriel had the niggling feeling that this was only what Reaper wanted him to see—and he was going to cut off that thought before it spiraled into an unwinnable mind game against his future fucking self, of all people. He trusted his instincts, and he trusted Jack. In this time, this place, he had no other choice. 

Gabriel searched the room, pausing over the targets at the end of the range. Near perfect groups, all of them. Of-fucking-course. As he looked closer, Gabriel noticed the clusters of bullet holes concentrated on the head. Omnic targets, then, not humans. Without looking at the other man, Gabriel spoke. "How did this happen?" 

"Straight to the point as always." Reaper’s lips twisted into a half-smile. "Four years ago, the world went to shit. Certain individuals wanted to breed chaos. They killed important public figures, sowed dissent, and on top of all that, the omniums woke back up."

"But _why_." 

"Why?" He laughed. "Considering the situation, I don't think it really matters. You still don't know what caused first Crisis, do you?"

"I don't care about all of that!" Gabriel snarled, whipping around to face him. He took a step closer, then another and another. Well out of striking range for his own fucking safety. He refused to be played like a goddamn fiddle. "All I want to know what happened between you and Jack. It's clear you two aren't together, not really, and—" 

"What makes you so sure?" Reaper interrupted. His smile, tight-lipped and lopsided, didn't reach his eyes. 

"It's simple. Even if I didn't see the way you two act together, I know what Jack looks like when he's hurting. I do it a lot, yeah, but I've never seen him so… Not even when his mother died." 

The man he would never become looked away. 

"Whenever he can't help himself, whenever he thinks no one is looking, Jack drops that fucking mask—and not the one he wears to help him see, smartass." Gabriel tapped his temple. "I saw him without it on before, and he tried so damn hard not to lean in real close to better see a face he hadn't seen in God knows who long." 

Reaper flinched but he said nothing. Gabriel waited, counted to a silent ten, and then continued. 

"Meanwhile, he looks at _you_ like you're a dead man walking, a fucking ghost haunting his every step." 

At first, the other man seemed not to have heard him. He stood there, frozen, in absolute stillness, as if he wasn't even fucking breathing, and then he looked up. Somehow, he seemed older, as if years had passed in the span of minutes. 

"So you came here wanting to know what you need to do in order to stop the inevitable?" 

"Yes," Gabriel ground out. His hands tightened into fists at his side. Punching his older self was out of the question, even if it would be a fitting payback for what he'd done to Jack. Instead, he inhaled a slow breath, held it for five, then exhaled until he wrestled his temper back under control. 

"The answer's simple: do nothing." 

Gabriel saw red. 

"What?" He shouted, as if raising his voice would force the other man to answer—to really answer this time—through sheer volume alone. "What the hell do you mean?"

"You heard me," Reaper flatly said, squaring his shoulders. "There's _nothing_ you can do." The older man sounded tired, defeated, as if all his other emotions had burnt down to cinder and ash. "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. And yes," Reaper said without stopping, talking right over him as if he didn't fucking exist, "I _did_ just fucking quote Nietzsche." Then he paused, as if for dramatic effect, as if he needed to cement exactly how much of a fucker he was by letting it all sink in. 

"It's as simple as I said: our relationship didn't work out. We tried, but super soldiers are only human when you get down to it." He laughed: a sad, bitter sound. "We can survive a bullet to the chest, but we can't keep the one good thing in our life from breaking to pieces in our hands."

Gabriel looked down at his hands. "Is _that_ why he has those scars on his face? Did you—did _we_ —do that to him?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"That's not fucking good enough!" Gabriel snarled. "I need to know so that I don't—" He inhaled a ragged breath. "I swear on my mother's grave, I'm not going repeat your mistakes! Give me a real answer right fucking now, or else I'll—"

"Or else you'll _what_?" Reaper scoffed. "I know exactly what you'll try to do to me, so don't waste our time. I know exactly when you came from, too," he added. 

So what? Gabriel said nothing, even as his face burned beneath that knowing gaze and that fucking smirk. 

"I know why you're so pissed, and hell, I was, too, at the time, if I'm being honest. But the next time you have a mirror, take a long, hard look at yourself." 

Fuck it. He already had one, and it was staring him in the face with an expression he couldn't decipher, let alone name. Emotional intelligence had always been Jack's area of expertise. 

"You know he's wrong," Reaper continued, "so fuck him, right? You'll do some spiteful bullshit just to prove a point, as if any of that will matter once HQ explodes around you. Love will save everything, you think, and when that fails, you'll shed blood, sweat, and tears to solve your problems. You can't talk things out like regular human beings, after all."

"Like you're any fucking better." 

"I'm not. I've just had a lot more experience than you. I spent decades beside one of the most well-spoken individuals I've ever met, even if he does steal all the bedding at night." When Reaper laughed, his expression softened, the hard lines washed away by fond, distant memories. "But some things just aren't made to last."

"That's bullshit, and you know it, don't you dare say otherwise." 

Reaper shrugged, and somehow, he managed a smile, looking at him with so much pity, as if Gabriel was the fool dressed up like a _goddamn_ clown. 

"You've made all the wrong decisions," he said. "You'll live with the consequences and die by them, too." 

Gabriel gritted his teeth. "So, what are you saying, huh? I'm just supposed to give up on Jack, give up on what we have? Am I supposed to just walk away?"

"You'll do what you want no matter what I say. I can't change that, even if I was once you and you might one day be me." Gabriel watched with a fascinated horror as his future self began to lift up the hem of his shirt. "But I meant what I said." 

Each inch of mottled skin revealed a scar, so many of them he recognized, but the long line cutting down the middle of his torso was unfamiliar. It felt like trying to solve a puzzle without any guide whatsoever. 

Gabriel waited and watched. 

When Reaper had rucked the shirt up high enough to see his sternum, Gabriel could at last see the full picture: a large Y-shaped scar forked down the middle of his torso. Even from a distance, he could see the raised texture, as if the wound had been roughly sewn back together. He'd only ever seen that scar on—

Gabriel felt sick.

Reaper chuckled, soft and bitter. "And when you get dragged back to life, kicking and screaming, you'll mourn everything you've lost 'til you decide the only proper course of action for a ghost unable to move on. Drown the pain, the sorrow, in blood and violence and revenge. After all, if you can't trust anyone, let alone your allies, you'll join the enemy instead."

"'The enemy,'" Gabriel repeated. "What enemy? The only enemy Overwatch has is—" His brows drew together. "You mean I—we—join _Talon_?"

Reaper remained silent.

_"Why."_

"You should know the answer to that," Reaper said at last. "Why does a man do anything?" 

"For the one he loves. To protect what he loves." Gabriel choked out the words. A weight settled on his chest, heavy and tight. "But somewhere along the line, that wasn't enough, was it?"

"Don't make my mistakes," Reaper said. He tugged his shirt back down. "Think about the consequences—or don't. It's your choice."

For a moment, Gabriel stood there, motionless, his breath shuddering through his lungs. Then, he turned on his heel with a sharp jerk, and as the door closed behind him, he told himself he wasn't running away. Gabriel stumbled into an empty, rancid bathroom and vomited into the sink, his breathing ragged as he tried to fight down the panic rising acid and sharp in his stomach.

In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, he could still see the scar stitched into ashen skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Gabriel almost said, "Bitch, please!" to his older self. If it hadn't completely ruined the dramatic tension, I would have kept it in.
> 
> You may notice a _slight_ change to the number of chapters. Moving forward, I'll be deviating ever-so-slightly from the original structure in order to make the chapters more digestible, since—if I followed my initial plan—I'd be saddling you all with a chapter well over 18K words long right now. Hey, even I have to draw the line somewhere.
>
>> What you are, I was. What I am, you will be.
> 
> While Reaper merely paraphrases the English translation of the title, I still count it as a title drop, though I may be a bit biased, ahaha. The phrase gets to the heart of what I wanted to explore with this story—how Jack Morrison and Soldier: 76 and Gabriel Reyes and Reaper are the same people despite the time and distance between them. It's probably why I have A Thing™ for name symbolism, too, if it wasn't blatantly obvious by now.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Did I make the right decision to split up the chapters? Are Jack and Gabriel (and Soldier and Reaper) idiots who cannot communicate with each other if their lives depended on it? Will Gabriel _ever_ acquire the funding to purchase whatever shiny new military hardware he desires? 
> 
> ...I guess we'll find out next week. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
